The Riddle Chronicles - Year I: Lord Protector
by papertigeruk
Summary: London, 1938. As the storm clouds of war gather over Europe, a brilliant and ambitious boy escapes London's south docks, for the Scottish Highlands. At Hogwarts, Tom Riddle has the opportunity to master magic and put his lean years at Wool's Orphanage behind him. New friendships, experiences and an insatiable appetite for adventure, help him piece together his shadowy past.
1. I: 1938 & a New Beginning

**The Riddle Chronicles — Year I: Lord Protector**

 **Chapters**

I 1938 and a New Beginning

II Gary Box, I Presume

III An Unpromising Start

IV May I Have a Volunteer?

V Slug Club, Tina and the Astronomy Tower

VI The Lost Morning

VII All Hail, Lord Protector

VIII McQuillan's Reign of Terror

IX A Scrap of Parchment

X Unleashing the Rabisu

XI A Glimpse Into the Past

XII The Hogwarts 800 and Pipe Dreams

XIII Rumour, Gretel and the End of the Beginning

* * *

'The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil, is for good _people_ to do nothing.' (1) ― Edmund Burke.

'If the soul has strength, it conquers and rules thereafter.' ― Charlotte Brontë.

'Are people born bad, or do they become bad? I suspect nurture, over nature.' ― Armando Dippet.

* * *

 _London, 1938. As the storm clouds of war gather over Europe, a brilliant and ambitious boy escapes London's south docks, for the Scottish Highlands. At Hogwarts, Tom Riddle has the opportunity to master magic and put his lean years at Wool's Orphanage behind him. New friendships, experiences and an insatiable appetite for adventure, help him piece together his shadowy past. How will he fare against the Rabisu, persistent nightmares and a jealous, older student? Will the Hogwarts 800 bring humiliation or glory? Slughorn, auror, criminal and a group of loyal friends guide Tom in his choices, but are they the right advisers? Or the right choices?_

* * *

 **Acknowledgement**

This is a work of fanfiction. The intellectual property rights to the Harry Potter books, films and existing characters referenced, are owned by J.K. Rowling and her business associates.(2) Consequently, this book is offered free of charge for sharing: on condition that it includes this statement, the original cover and all text — including credits — remains unaltered. If you enjoy the book, please consider passing it on to friends and other Potter fans.

 _P.E. Seery. November 2017._

* * *

(1.) 'Men' changed to 'people'. To retain meaning and include everyone.

(2.) Bloomsbury Publishing plc, Scholastic Press and Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

* * *

 **I - 1938 and a New Beginning**

The muddy-brown Thames had faded to green along its shore. No breeze ruffled the surface and Deptford's, domino terraces baked in the August sun. The clink of hammers from Westinghouse Brake and Signal Co. were heard but unseen, as workers retreated to shade. Swinging factory windows at Wheens Soap Works, dazzled the pedestrians on Maze Hill and sides of beef at The Royal Victualling Yard, infused the streets with gently-rotting meat.

Not a hundred feet from the river's edge, Tom sat inside on Kit's bed. Although younger than Kit, he was reading a newspaper article to his friend. It spoke of an ambitious new Germany, energised after its recent union with Austria. They were keen to reassure countries such as the United Kingdom, that despite appearances, they posed no further threat. Kit paced around the room, waving his arms.

'It's the same-old, same-old, Tom. We heard it twenty-five years ago. We're all friends, till they march up to your front door, with plans on moving in. I can't believe we're here again, so soon _and all!_ '

'None of us were alive twenty-five years ago,' Tom replied. Intended to soothe, it sounded challenging.

'Grandad _were_ and he paid for it. I never got to meet the man.' Kit ran out of steam.

Kit Trevelyan was born in Redruth, in 1922. His parents moved to London when he was three years old, to find work. They were hit and killed by a tram in Lewisham, shortly after securing digs nearby. Without a family on hand, Kit slipped through the net for two weeks. Locked in a tenement flat, he fended for himself, drinking water from the lavatory and eating whatever scraps he could find. He survived until the rent collector discovered him, dirty and alone. Kit was passed over to Wool's Orphanage, a Victorian building of yellow brick, gone black. With the arched windows of a manufactory, it backed onto the working Thames in Deptford and the street's cobbles sloped into the river, so flooding was common after heavy rainfall. There was a ferry to the Isle of Dogs, which ran regularly from the water's edge. A gangplank was dropped and passengers wobbled aboard, balancing with their arms. If the ferry was half empty and you were coming straight back, Wool's boys could ride for free.

Tom was eleven and had been raised in the orphanage since birth. Kit was five years older and more a brother, than a friend. Parnaby, the orphanage manager, oversaw day-to-day operations and Kit began working for Parnaby once he reached fourteen. He was no longer the institution's responsibility, but they let him keep his old room. Tom's earliest memories featured Kit and although he rarely shared his view of world affairs, he supported him without question. Kit was tall and broad shouldered, with short hair and a tendency to continually nod when thinking. A skilled joiner, his hands smelled of wood shavings and during the day he managed repairs to the orphanage fittings. Being locked up as a child, meant he saw the world as an ocean of opportunity. Tom and Kit fell in together through their many differences.

Wool's was the only home Tom Riddle had ever known. His past was an empty journal with a pen poised above it. Jealousy always accompanied Kit's mention of his dead father, mother, or grandfather; Kit had a past that could be measured, considered and unpacked at will. Tom knew nothing of his history, but believed his destiny lay outside this unpromising patch of London. Tom could make the impossible, possible; it was as natural as breathing to him and he alone possessed the ability. Well, not strictly true. An elderly man had visited him earlier that year and demonstrated that he was not alone in his abilities. Since then: nothing. Tom began to doubt whether the man had visited at all.

As Kit talked and Tom pretended to listen, his thoughts drifted towards his latest diversion. From an early age, he could persuade animals to do as he wished; the barking dog stopped at his silent command, before smacking its chops and sloping off. The blinkered dray horse in the scrapyard, blew and panted, before Tom's gaze pacified her. He graduated quite naturally onto people. If hungry, he would suggest that the orphanage cook look away, then wander into the kitchen, help himself and return to his room. Meanwhile, she would gaze at the scullery skylight, racking her brains and trying to remember what she'd been thinking about.

So Tom spread his wings further than the few streets surrounding Wool's. If the mood struck, he'd cross Deptford Creek and walk up Greenwich High Road; to watch Austins and Hillmans strain up Royal Hill. Once he'd seen an Alvis crest the summit doing more than sixty. A sense of order was developing in his mind. He wanted luxuries he didn't have and felt sure he deserved them; unlike the rich, flaunting their wealth in Kensington and Knightsbridge. They used their advantages; why shouldn't he? Standing beside the boating lake below Greenwich Hill, one Saturday in April, he'd seen a young girl fall in. Her father raced across the park, oiled hair bouncing, as he shouted instructions.

'Don't you move now!'

Tom made the father trip face-first into the shallow water. He hadn't planned it and continued to pretend to himself, that he was nothing more than a passer by. Then a policeman ran to help and was pitched headlong into the lake too. Inside a minute, bedraggled bodies were hauling each other ashore; parents shooing their children towards safety, with canoes and rowboats abandoned. Feeling guilty, Tom headed back to Deptford; looking in shop windows, to ensure no policemen were following him.

* * *

Clouds with swollen underbellies, pressed against London's skyline and tarmac slooshed under car tyres, as city commuters skipped for cover. The stoops of buildings smelled of wet, wool suits and skirts, while the crowds watched and waited. A dark shape fell earthwards beside St. Paul's. The shape, momentarily confused, regained its bearings and scanned for familiar landmarks. It spotted Tower Bridge and drew back its wings, pitching into a dive. The river, rain-pitted with peaks of foam, guided the owl, who flicked its wings to rid them of surface water. The plan was to fly low and follow the river east, past the Pool of London, Wapping Basin and over Lavender Pond. The perfume of pineapple and tobacco from West India Dock, mixed with rainwater on its journey northwards. The owl appeared as nothing more than a sidelong glance of movement, to nearby dockworkers. With heavy leather pads protecting one shoulder, they hauled damp sacks of cloves along the quayside.

 _Octavius_ spotted the telltale, five-bar pens of the cattle market and veered right from the central channel. He passed the Deptford Ferry before flying over the chimney of Wool's Orphanage; a functional brick building, without embellishments or charm. Using precise timing, honed over decades, he released the letter and it tumbled down the chimney. The letter flew from the unlit hearth, before spinning to a stop in Wool's public entrance. The sideboard and dried flowers, did little to disguise the joyless institution up the stairs. The address read: _Tom Marvolo Riddle, Wool's Orphanage, Wharf Street, Deptford, London SE8._

Moments later Ronald Parnaby happened to walk past, though this was no accident; Octavius was a stickler for post arriving precisely when it was needed. In his early forties, Parnaby bent forward to pick up the letter; he winced, then remembered there was no nearby audience. He was healthy enough, but never missed an opportunity to extract sympathy from a bystander. Parnaby turned the letter over several times; mystified how it had been posted through a door with no letterbox.

'Tom…' He paused, puzzled. 'Marvolo? Riddle.' He looked around, expecting laughter from some misbehaving boys. Obviously a joke: Tom Riddle receiving mail. Boys at Wool's didn't receive mail, that was sort of the point. They had no contact outside the orphanage, so this was all very unusual. He carried the letter back to his study, like a bird with a broken wing; then stopped by the kitchen along the way: a high-ceilinged room, with frosted windows facing the river. Parnaby put the letter in his side pocket and took a slice of cooling meat and potato pie. Cook came in, drying both hands on her skirts.

'That's your lunch, Mr. Parnaby.'

'And I'll be having some now.' He left the way he'd come, trailing crumbs behind him. This was Parnaby's kingdom; he did what he liked, not what lowly kitchen staff suggested.

Parnaby's study was oak panelled, with elaborate carvings in the window bay. It gave him a view of Wool's entrance, all the better to oversee its comings and goings. If the orphanage was his kingdom: this was the throne room. Packed with leather-bound books he'd never read, a globe he'd never spun and ledger books he'd never opened. He entrusted all that to his daughter's suitor.

A Bakelite telephone sat on its own table, an arm's length from his chair. It was installed by Mrs Cole, the orphanage owner, but she left Parnaby to run day-to-day operations. He despised the telephone, always expecting it to ring without warning; it also reminded him that he was an employee. Several rungs up the ladder of course, but still in someone's service.

Parnaby took a silver letter opener from the drawer, presented to him by the Aldermen of Deptford and slit the envelope. He read the letter, mumbling as he did so.

'Tom Riddle… Hogwarts… Joining instructions… Platform 9¾…!' He frowned and re-read the first paragraph. 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.' This was so ridiculous, it was very nearly funny; Tom's got in somewhere? A hoax, it had to be. No one knew he was here. Parnaby stood up and admired his mantelpiece, crowded with silver framed portraits. Himself surrounded by local councillors, holding his fists up to a boxer and fawning behind distant royalty. He pulled one of six drawstrings near the hatstand. On the next floor, Slater, the orphanage dogsbody, was summoned and sent to find Tom Riddle.

Parnaby turned, looked up the street and thought of nothing at all.

* * *

Sunlight flashed on the wet cobbles. Tom was trying not to stare outside, while he stood with his hands behind his back. It was rare to be called into Parnaby's study during the day; perhaps someone had seen Tom, or found his money cache? No. That was impossible, unless you drilled through the brick in his room, or were familiar with the magical arts.

Parnaby held up the envelope to face him. 'Tom Marvolo Riddle. _That_ you?'

Tom read the address. 'I'm the only Tom Riddle here, sir.'

Parnaby moved on. 'It says you've been accepted to a school of…' He shook his head, smiling in disbelief. 'Witchcraft and wizardry? What do you make of that, eh? Wizardry?'

'I don't know anything about wizardry, sir,' Tom replied.

Parnaby had some tactical manoeuvring to do; he wanted Tom gone, the sooner the better. Reports had come in: independent, reliable reports. Upset boys, items missing, general aggravation he didn't need, some of which implicated Tom. However, he had another problem requiring attention: Jack Yardley and the Cubitt Town Boys. Jack Yardley owed him twenty-five pounds for shifting lumber back in March; a gang of Wool's boys had done the work, with the lion's share coming to Parnaby. Now Jack was cooling to the idea of payment. He suggested there was little Parnaby could do about it, since his _muscle_ were the Cubitt Town dockers. Jack fixed their work rosters in the Poplar and Blackwall basins, so Cubitt Town Boys were guaranteed work. They'd beat up Parnaby on Jack's say so, probably with very little encouragement. Perhaps Tom might do something to persuade them otherwise? Parnaby was beyond desperate and considered Tom worth a shot; rumours were widespread that he was a highly-persuasive young man.

'Look lad, I've no problem with you receiving a bit of schooling. Have a purpose in life and all that business. Right this minute something needs sorting, if you catch my drift?' Parnaby's tongue moistened his bottom lip: a sure sign that someone was being deceived. He shuffled paper on his desk.

'I don't catch your drift, sir.'

Tom allowed his eyes to wander around the room. It smelled of soot and a shaft of sunlight glowed on the hearth rug. The pendulum clock above Parnaby's fireplace, clicked and further up the street, children were playing now the rain had moved on.

Parnaby sighed, he had to spell it out to the boy. 'Jack Yardley owes me this money, see? I need to get it back. If you… assist, then we'll sign you up to your school. Says a late place is available, so there's nothing done and dusted yet. We get the money, you go to school. I can't make it any clearer than that.'

'How,' Tom asked, missing something vital.

Parnaby's eyes narrowed, _is he simple?_ 'I'm a plain speaking man Tom. I've heard the stories; it might surprise you to learn people round here talk. Persuade Jack and you go to school. I've every confidence you'll do the right thing.'

Tom said nothing.

'I know something of your parents, Tom, scraps of information I can't recall right now. Do your bit and chances are, it'll jog the old memory.'

Parnaby was no fool and knew which buttons to press. Tom responded with telltale emotion.

'My parents?'

'All in good time Tom.' Parnaby motioned calm with his downward palms. 'We're all friends here. You can go about your business, I'm sure of it.' Parnaby interlocked his fingers. 'We need to be up The Gun before nine, best place to find Yardley, so have supper and tidy your room. Tell anyone asking, you're on an errand for Mr Parnaby. Yes?'

Parnaby was a liar and a poor one at that, but Tom knew what Hogwarts promised. Education and a new life far from Wool's; Parnaby might release snippets of information about his parents too. He pretended to mull it over, but had already decided.

'What time, Mr Parnaby?'

'Eight pm, visitor's entrance. Off you go now.'

Parnaby watched Tom leave. 'I've just recalled. Your mother was a Merope Riddle, born Merope Gaunt. That's enough for now.'

Tom paused and nodded, absorbing the information before leaving. His outward emotion was now under control, but inside he was blooming. The mother he'd previously imagined, had just became a real person.

* * *

Tom returned to Kit's room, but he wasn't there. The room contained a single bed: iron framed with a thin mattress and surplus blanket from the Army & Navy Store. A letterbox window near the ceiling, was the only source of daylight. The locker, just a waist-high wooden box with a swing door, was on one side of the bed; pictures or mirrors were forbidden, but newspaper clippings could be pinned inside locker doors. Providing the content was clean.

When Tom was seven, he'd swept straw at the Foreign Cattle Market with a number of other boys. Several weeks later, Parnaby allowed them into town for a day out. They'd caught the train from Deptford to Charing Cross and walked the Thames Embankments, north and south. Gazed up at the Palace of Westminster, listening to the bongs of Big Ben; then picnicked in St James's Park on apples, luncheon meat and white bread with dripping. It was the first time Tom was aware of Kit always being around. While they walked down The Mall to watch the changing of the guard, Tom became tired, so Kit carried him on his back. There was the thrill of being taller, the marching soldiers, the vast palace, but most of all: the thrill of belonging. Kit wasn't carrying anyone else, just Tom.

Judith — Parnaby's daughter — was there too, in a buttercup-print dress, with yellow ribbons in her hair. She had a way of smiling, with her eyes closed, so you couldn't tell who it was directed at; she was usually smiling at someone else. While on Kit's back, Judith had held Tom's hand, like he was her grown-up husband. He never imagined having a family of his own one day, but people did that all the time; you saw the evidence on a daily basis. Judith would make a good wife, but he had no experience or knowledge of girls, wives or relations. His heart fluttered at the thought of her holding him like a son.

The memory faded and Tom walked back to his room: half the size of Kit's, with a smaller window facing north. During the winter, any sun fell on the other side of the building and putting the electric on before dark was strictly forbidden. He sat on the bed and revisited his memories of Judith. She was sixteen years old and had a boyfriend three years older, Edgar Wallis; he helped Parnaby with the accounts, so had his feet firmly under the table. Judith was a brunette with hair to her shoulders, high cheekbones and a pointed chin. Always relaxed and potentially scheming, you might pass her leaning against a bannister: elbows draped on either side and hands hanging down. It was difficult to tell whether this was affected or genuine behaviour, but it had the desired effect on Tom. If he was walking to breakfast, a smooth voice would surprise him from behind: _Morning Tom_. There she was, leaning against something, sipping milk through a straw. Being unforgettable.

Several years earlier, there was an explosion at the Royal Victualling Yard: sparks from two, colliding steel beams, showered onto dry sacking below. A delivery truck bound for the warship, H.M.S. Hindustan, had brought live munitions into the warehouse. The explosion killed thirty-one dockside workers and three boys from Wool's. Tom knew them, perhaps not well, but they were familiar faces around the orphanage. Their deaths disturbed him and awoke a dormant emotion. Death was final and absolute; you were here one minute and gone the next. It was disturbing because, unlike most, Tom was quite capable of imagining eternity.

He often woke with his neck and back bathed in sweat: from dreams of being buried underground and forgotten. He'd shared a room with other boys when the explosion occurred. Judith appeared at their door not long afterwards and smoothly invited herself in; this was not allowed, but she did whatever she pleased and besides, Tom was alone. She sat beside him and said it was perfectly normal to feel sad for those dead boys.

He'd forgotten about the boys and was far more concerned with his own mortality. Then Judith surprised him; she put her arms around his shoulders, pulled him closer and began to stroke his hair gently. At first he wanted to pull away, out of embarrassment, but it was deliciously soothing. 'Don't worry,' she cooed, 'That'll never happen to you Tom. I'll see to it.' He felt the vibrations of her voice and up close she smelled of primrose soap. Her blouse and jumper were freshly perfumed with jasmine, in preparation for his exclusive performance. Tom rested there, calmly swaying in Judith's web. Unable to leave and not wanting to.

* * *

Parnaby was already at the visitor's entrance when Tom came down the stairs; sprucing and patting his hair in the mirror. Tom correctly deduced that Parnaby was terrified.

'Tom, good lad. Look sharp, time and tide wait for no man.' They walked briskly down the cobbles to the foot ferry. There were several workers already boarding and one had a bike standing on its back wheel to let them pass. The sun sank upstream and a persistent stench from Deptford's cattle-market, hung over the water. They tottered up the gangplank and the ferryman's mate cast off; more barge than ferry, it heaved around — spewing black smoke — then chugged across to the Isle of Dogs. They stepped ashore in semi-darkness and passed through Millwall as the lamps were being lit: the mantels cast an unnatural, green light and Parnaby noticed Tom's eyes checking left and right.

'Not nervous are we, Tom? Big strapping lad like you.' Parnaby was disappointed. He'd heard rumours that many boys were wary of Tom and now he needed Jack Yardley to be afraid. What was he thinking? Parnaby had come to teach the local hardman a lesson, with a schoolboy to do his fighting; a bubble of panic swelled and rose up his spine, but he bullied it back below.

'I thought I saw something.'

'Well, we don't want to miss the show,' Parnaby paused. 'We need Jack Yardley to give us the money he owes Tom _._ Trouble is, he might have other ideas. So... I'm relying on you.'

Tom nodded as they crossed the East Ferry Road into Cubitt Town; it was obvious to him from the first moment what Parnaby wanted.

They continued in silence as the light faded and insects from the basin, swarmed inside the street lamps.

Passing the South Dock entrance, they paused beside Cold Harbour. The Gun — a public house — stood on the corner, next to the Navy Gun Foundries; a group of men outside were holding glass tankards of ale, pushing each other and shouting. Parnaby took a deep breath, it was time to face the music. They approached the two-storey, whitewashed building and Tom raised his hand to waist level, spread his fingers and spoke quietly. Parnaby slowed, then froze mid-step. The soot-covered foundry workers became lifeless mannequins; a seagull, beak open, hung above their heads. Nothing moved and except for Tom's footsteps, it was silent. He entered the pub through a door marked _Public_ and crossed a bar panelled with reclaimed wood, from the ship-breakers in Greenwich Reach. Two dozen men were seated or standing, some mid-laugh, others with hollow faces staring into their drinks. Tom approached the bar, parting the static cigarette smoke as he did so, while the landlord stood with both hands on the bar surface. Behind him a sign said: _no tick._

A group of four sat in the corner: Jack Yardley and several Cubitt Town Boys. Jack wore no shirt, just a white vest, with braces hanging below his trousers; he was clean, unlike his colleagues, who were head to toe in soot. The soot and iron muscle told you they were foundry workers. Men who spent their days clipping orange steel, then feeding it under steam hammers, for shifts of over fourteen hours. Not people you picked a fight with and they played rough too. Troublemakers could disappear inside a furnace, everyone knew it. Jack ran the streets because he guaranteed work for his boys; otherwise it was the lottery of chasing a decent meal and scraping a living. The choice was simple: become a Cubitt Town Boy, or suffer the consequences.

Jack, in his element, was looking forward to a showdown with Parnaby. Maybe they'd drop him head first into the Thames?

Tom with his palm outstretched, placed it on Jack's forehead and closed his eyes. Images from Jack's past flickered in Tom's mind, while he mined the man's memories. He needed to go back to Jack's childhood and on the way saw a teenage soldier, praying at the Battle of Passchendaele. Interesting, but he needed more.

This was more like it. Jack in a half-size bed, alone and crying; eyes tightly shut and his breathing ragged. _So Jack's afraid of the dark._ Tom removed his hand and evaluatedthe man: a tough talker with muscle, but underneath? A mouse. Tom placed his other hand on top of Jack's head and introduced a new idea.

A blind Jack, facing a lifetime of darkness, with only the memory of Tom's face to keep him company. Once the new thought was installed, Tom withdrew and joined Parnaby outside; his eyelids clenched then reopened and the wheels of time continued. Parnaby pushed back the pub door.

Jack flinched in his seat, convinced he'd suffered a heart attack. The spasm passed, but not the fear. He'd seen an unknown boy's face, then himself fumbling with his empty eye sockets. That unknown boy had just walked into the pub.

'Jack!' Parnaby was all familiarity, while he received a bar full of hostile stares. He licked his lips, unable to suppress the fear pouring out of him.

'Twenty-five pound _weren't_ it?' Jack leaned forward and counted notes from a satchel below.

'Yes...' Parnaby would play along with the joke. Jack handed the notes over and Parnaby braced himself for a beating; Yardley would never part with cash if he didn't have to. Jack's boys were equally surprised that he'd paid up, but Jack always took care of business. No doubt he had something up his sleeve for this sewer rat.

Parnaby pocketed the cash and was struck by a thirst for whisky; his dry throat agreed, but they could still set about him at any moment. No, he would leave while the going was good and get whisky elsewhere.

'I'll be off then,' he said and the men returned to their drinks. Nobody noticed the lad at Parnaby's side, except Jack; the young devil had been dancing merrily over his grave.

They cut through Millwall Dock on the return journey. It was dark now and vagrants were cooking behind the sisal warehouses, so the smell of wood smoke and rotting vegetables, accompanied them back to the ferry. Parnaby said nothing, just turning every so often to check they weren't being followed. When they left Cubitt Town, he breathed more easily. At first Parnaby presumed they'd got lucky, but then rejected the idea; Tom had done something secretly, so he wouldn't know. Parnaby considered keeping the boy as an accomplice, for any future disagreements. No, that was foolish talk. Tom might turn his abilities on him, best to let the lad go; keep him sweet from time-to-time. He fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver crown. A fraction of the money Tom had recovered, but never-before-seen generosity from Parnaby.

'Get yourself some books for learning,' Tom slipped the crown into his trouser pocket. 'You'll be needing them I shouldn't wonder.' Parnaby found small talk impossible, so Tom came to his rescue.

'I'm sure I will Mr Parnaby. Thank you.'

Parnaby nodded, but spoke no further. Tom didn't need the money; he had plenty of his own. If the orphanage had taught him anything, it was that money excused a multitude of sins; perhaps on the surface, rather than in a meaningful way, but no matter. He would take the money all the same. Parnaby was his guardian and for the time being, he needed one of those.

They walked on in silence. An amber moon hung above the rooftops of East London and now, finally, he would be leaving all this behind.


	2. II: Gary Box, I Presume

**II - Gary Box, I Presume**

Tom awoke early and considered what lay ahead. Today he was leaving the orphanage, the only home he'd ever known. Tom was aware his abilities were rare; in fact, before the man with the beard came to visit him earlier that year, he believed he was unique. _Dumblemore?_ He checked his joining instructions: Albus Dumbledore. He was a transfiguration professor, who'd recommended him to the school board. Tom had tried to read Dumbledore's mind at the time, usually a straightforward task, but the magical professor was a locked box.

Tom rolled out of bed, dressed, then packed his suitcase. Battered, but functional, he added the few possessions from his bedside locker and locked the clasps. Recently he'd bought a second-hand suit, which he planned to wear this morning; it was grey tweed, in a style favoured by aging academics. He'd never worn a tie before, so tucked in the uneven lengths, then clipped a pocket watch to his buttonhole. He was finally moving on; while Wool's would remain where it was.

Tom waited for the building to stir and stared up at the slit of sky, watching it turn from navy to silver; it was dull outside and after a dry summer, they were in for a wet autumn. He could smell tea stewing and bread toasting for the eighty-eight boys. A job he'd done many times, but not today; then his good fortune finally sank in. He would soon be free of this place; the first Wool's boy to leave London for school. Of course, no one knew it specialised in the magical arts. That detail, both he and Parnaby planned never to mention.

Breakfast passed without incident. He half-expected Parnaby to say something, but it was just like the many others he'd endured. Tom returned to his room and found Kit waiting with Judith. They planned to see him off and it was one of the rare occasions where Tom's feelings toward Wool's, softened.

'Here he is, our man of the moment. The brains behind this half-baked outfit!' Kit, slapped and held one shoulder, like an elder brother. Tom was less comfortable with smiling than Kit, but his enthusiasm was infectious.

Judith drew him to her. 'I'm gonna miss you Tom, say you'll write?' She held him to her chest and he heard her heart beating fast. Someone other than Tom would interpret this as affection, but he knew it was a front.

'I'll write.' He promised, but he'd only _said_ he'd write; just as she'd asked. Tom would already have plenty to keep him busy at school.

Judith released him and they took the wooden staircase to the visitor's entrance, with Kit carrying Tom's suitcase. Parnaby was waiting at the foot of the stairs, an awkward encounter for both parties. He handed Tom a consent form, allowing him pockets of freedom at his new school. Parnaby smiled as he handed the paper over. There were patters of rain on the glass above the front door and the smell of pipe tobacco drifted down from his study. Parnaby shook Tom's hand, then opened the door. Not wanting to prolong everyones' discomfort, Tom set off for the tram stop in Deptford Market, ignoring the drizzle. At the end of Wharf Street he looked back and saw Kit waving, but the other two had gone.

He waved and turned right, picking his way between the eaves and leaping over gutters. Ten minutes later, Tom was upstairs in a tram; its windows were fogged with condensation and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. He rubbed a porthole into the glass with his sleeve and followed their progress. Through Surrey Quays and Bermondsey, then past Tower Bridge and into Southwark. No one paid him the least attention, despite the fact that today, his life was about to begin. The painted advertisements for cigarettes and soap were rusted at the corners and there was a melancholic atmosphere aboard the tram: traces of the long-forgotten dreams it transported back and forth across London. Waterloo East couldn't come soon enough.

Tom crossed The Thames via Hungerford Bridge and climbed Villiers Street. His pace slowed as the street grew steeper, but there was something else too; a critical part of his joining instructions was approaching. He believed in his abilities, but all this talk of _magic_ and _wizarding_ irritated him. After years of concealment, he was now expected to share all his secrets and wasn't sure how he felt about that yet. On the other hand, he had much to gain from Hogwarts. Tom skipped around cars and buses on The Strand; the traffic lights were out and a wet policeman in oilskins was directing traffic. A picture of misery, as rain rolled from his drooping moustache.

Under the awning of a bookshop opposite Leicester Square Tube, Tom checked his instructions again. The place in question was between a shop selling gramophones and a book emporium, but there were so many to choose from. He was looking for an inn called _The Leaky Cauldron_. One street further up, he saw it. A nondescript front, with windows behind privacy screens; nothing about it interested the stream of pedestrians hurrying by.

Although it was tempting to linger outside and delay his entrance, Tom decided not to window-shop. The door was heavy and his eyes took a moment adjusting to the gloom; inside were twenty or more customers spread around the room, none of whom looked in his direction. Projecting confidence, Tom approached the bar, where a bald man with no eyebrows was busy polishing a tankard. He continued polishing, until doing so any longer was likely to cause offence; then the man made eye contact, suggesting Tom should state his business.

'I'm booked to stay here. My name's Tom Riddle. I'll be leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow.' It sounded grown-up, as if he had somewhere important to be. The barman's eyes flashed.

'Silas, Tom Riddle's arrived. Says he's off to Hogwarts tomorrow!'

Silas, a man in a stovepipe hat at the end of the bar, turned towards them.

'That's a relief, we can stop worrying where he's got to, now.' He took a sip of ale and turned away.

Tom now realised that they were mocking him.

'What's your name?' He asked.

The barman spread his arms. 'I'm Tom too and _this here's_ my place.'

Yes. Tom remembered now; the landlord was also called Tom.

Landlord Tom came from behind the bar and took Tom's suitcase. 'Follow me. This way.'

A door, one side of the bar counter, had steps leading down to the cellar and upwards to the accommodation. Narrow and smelling of dusty wood, they climbed two levels; then the landlord unclipped a brass key, opened room six and handed the key to Tom.

'Come and go as you please till eleven at night, then the door below gets locked. Breakfast's between seven and nine downstairs, no exceptions. I've ordered your transport for eight-thirty in the morning; nice and early as you requested. Hansom cab, best there is. He'll get you over to King's Cross in two shakes.'

'My books and…' Tom left the sentence unfinished. He was still unhappy about discussing magic with strangers.

The landlord put his suitcase on the bed. 'You'll be needing Diagon Alley for all that.'

'Yes,' Tom replied. The joining instructions had said so.

They returned to the bar and crossed to a door in the corner; outside was a simple, paved garden with a high brick wall. Tom checked the instructions were still in his pocket, while the landlord pulled out a thin stick. Tom thought he was going to point at something, then realised it was a wand. Landlord Tom tapped lightly in an anticlockwise direction. Two bricks above Tom's head, swivelled and slid forward; which triggered a cascade of turning bricks, grinding against one another. When all movement had ceased, the brick dust hung like a cloud.

The rectangular entrance revealed a busy street ahead, which curved downhill to the right. Shops fought for attention on both sides, some wooden framed with plaster and others brick-fronted, with slate roofs. Iron guttering in need of fresh paint, supported two owls perched at one end; they surveyed the hubbub below, feathers shivering in the rooftop breeze. Most impressive was the sheer volume of people spilling from doorways and threading along the street. Talking; laughing; pointing; eating; drinking and excusing each other as they squeezed by. Many wore unusual clothing, but something else struck Tom; he could feel it radiating from each person he passed, like a persistent scent. _Magic_. He couldn't bring himself to say it back there, in The Leaky Cauldron, but here? A hair-raising aura of magic, surrounded everyone and everything.

'Return before eleven. Just tap your wand the other direction and before you know it _._ You're back in _The_ _Cauldron_.'

'I don't have a wand yet.'

'Best get one then,' the landlord grinned. 'Ollivanders'll see you right on that score. Not far to go.' He tapped the wall and the entrance closed.

* * *

Tom checked behind him as he walked away, looking for markers. There was an iron cauldron, swinging above the wall where the landlord had stood.

For the next hour Tom wandered among the crowds, taking in the sights and sounds of Diagon Alley. The conversations he heard, only made sense once you knew they were spoken by magical folk. Some wore fashions not seen on London's streets for centuries: doublet and hose; ruffs; piccadillies; hennin draped in lace and traditional academic robes. At the bottom of Diagon Alley was a grand building, with columns surrounding the entrance and dragon bas-relief decorating the frieze above. _Gringotts Wizarding Bank,_ was cast in gold lettering over the double-door entrance. Tom opened his letter from Hogwarts, which mentioned a stipend available to him; Parnaby had told him this was a payment to cover his basic needs at school.

Inside Gringotts, clerks sat at carrels lining the main floor of the bank: carrels were private booths, where financial matters could be discussed. Tom waited till one was free. The staff were definitely not human, which was unsettling, but he resisted the temptation to stare. A position became available and the goblin ushered him over.

'Name and account number, in that order.' The goblin made no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice.

'I don't have an account yet,' Tom replied, handing over the letter which detailed his stipend.

'Tom Marvolo _Rittle_?'

'Riddle,' Tom corrected.

'Which, unless I'm mistaken, is what I just said!' The goblin snapped back. He speed-read the letter, muttering.

'One galleon, six sickles per term, available within three days of term starting,' the goblin placed his spectacles on the desk.

'Do you exchange money?' Tom asked, 'Money from out there?'

'Muggle money, why wouldn't we? New round here are you?'

Tom pulled a wad of neatly folded five pound notes from his pocket. The goblin was surprised, then annoyed at being surprised. Tom was attempting to change £100 of muggle money; an enormous sum for anyone to be carrying around, let alone a boy. However, commission interested the goblin far more than whys and wherefores. His abacus clicked several times while he completed the transaction.

'Twenty-eight galleons and two sickles, including commission.'

Tom pushed his money across the desk and a drawer opened on the goblin's side. He transferred the gold galleons using a small shovel and deposited several into a leather pouch.

'Best you keep some at Gringotts; not everyone's friendly out there.' The goblin didn't look up.

'Half,' Tom replied.

The goblin pushed the leather pouch across the desk when he'd finished.

'Fifteen galleons and seven sickles. Next!' The goblin waved another customer over, as if Tom were suddenly invisible.

He gripped the neck of the pouch and tried to lift it from the leather surface; it was surprisingly heavy and likely to stretch his suit pocket on one side.

The goblin looked at the pouch, then the boy. He guessed this was a junior wizard, with no practical grasp of _feather-light_ charms. The goblin made a fist, then flicked his hand towards the pouch; it now weighed less than a slice of bread. Gringotts had been a humiliating experience for Tom and he didn't imagine buying a wand would be any easier.

He meandered back up Diagon Alley, towards the Leaky Cauldron. On the way down he'd seen Ollivanders and decided there was little point in looking for a wand, before he had the means to pay for it. The shop was exceptionally narrow, with a timber frame and mullioned windows and according to the sign they'd been selling wands since 382 BC; which sounded highly unlikely to Tom. He peered through the window, then pushed the door. There would be no more apologising for his muggle background; he was here on merit, so it would be simpler for all concerned, if he just got on with it. Tom was a quick learner and Diagon Alley was a far less hostile environment than Wool's.

Despite being narrow, the shop interior had dozens of interlocking shelves vanishing into the distance and it smelled like a recently-opened tomb. Each shelf was stacked with boxes, all of which, were smothered in dust and spider webs: strongly hinting at decades of inactivity.

Although a bell sounded above the door, it faded before anyone appeared. Tom waited, then decided to make his way around the shelves; he could hear distant sounds of activity coming from the back. There he discovered a man in a dusty, lilac suit, collecting boxes and piling them on the floor. The man was having an animated conversation with himself, so Tom cleared his throat.

'There... You... Are!' He addressed Tom as if they'd known each other for years. 'I guessed sometime this afternoon.' Ollivander flicked his hair back, worked his fingers through it several times to smarten his appearance, then thrust out a hand.

'Garrick Ollivander.'

'Tom Riddle.' They shook hands.

'I've something in mind Mr Riddle. Something special. Quite possibly, the easiest choice I've made in years. Now… Where is it lurking? It's been in its box for a while.'

Ollivander rushed between the shelves directly to Tom's left, pointing above him; then turning in the other direction, he ran along more shelves. This continued for several minutes, until Tom decided that Ollivander had no idea where he'd seen it. All part of an act, to sell him a more expensive wand he happened to have close by; an act often used by hawkers and conmen in Deptford Market. Ollivander stopped and his accompanying dust cloud, continued forward. Then he pointed to a box above his head, 'there it is.' He scrambled up the shelves, with no regard for his safety and when he returned, Ollivander looked like a doughnut rolled in sugar.

'Here we are. Yew, 13½", phoenix feather core.' He blew on the box: which was black, embossed with gold scrolls and satin lined. The wand tapered to a white, bone handle, with a pronounced hook. 'Try it for size. Give it a swish!' Ollivander encouraged.

Tom took the wand from its box. It fitted cleanly in his hand, especially when held with a claw grip. The wand quivered, probably relieved at finding an owner, or suddenly keen to escape? Time would tell.

'Oh, it becomes you.' Ollivander and Tom agreed on that point; it felt bespoke, crafted for his personality alone. He held himself more upright, when his hand wrapped around it.

After the paperwork was completed, Tom left the shop and thanked Ollivander. It was less painful than he'd expected; in fact, Ollivander had treated him with something approaching respect. Tom slipped the box into his inside pocket for safekeeping.

Ollivander watched Tom leave, smiling at his retreating back, until Tom rounded the bend; then the smile faded with the sound of his bell and a resigned expression replaced it. For the first time in more than fifty years, Garrick Ollivander had made a poor match. A potentially dangerous match. The boy had left with a most powerful wand and it displayed clear misgivings. The wand was supposed to choose the wizard, not the vendor.

Tom spent many hours collecting items on his list: textbooks, school robes, a cauldron, all of which were slung in a sack over his shoulder. The first shopkeeper was decent enough to lighten his burden with a charm, but it was still bulky. Tom stopped at a stand selling Scotch pies with rasping chips: part chip, part crisp and pumpkin based, they made a sound like sawing wood when chewed.

Tom checked his pocket watch again. The plan was to return to The Leaky Cauldron just before curfew as he had no desire to while away the evening in a bar full of strangers. Once more he trudged down Diagon Alley, but this time he spotted a dark passage branching from the main street. Tom felt a tremor inside his jacket — the box was quivering — as if his wand were now alive. He took it from the box and slipped it back into his inside pocket: within touching distance. He had to visit Knockturn Alley, because something there was awaiting his collection.

Knockturn Alley differed from Diagon Alley in several respects. There was the absence of crowds: just the odd person here and there; it was also quiet and had plenty of shadow, which people moved around in. Not peacefully quiet, more graveyard-in-the-dead-of-night quiet. Tom paused in front of a shop to his left: which had a meagre window display, behind a single pane of glass. In the half-light, it was difficult to guess what they were selling.

Tom's eyes adjusted and revealed that he was looking at two rows of shrunken, human heads. Their hair had not shrunk; however and still exploded like a geyser from the top of their tiny heads. Something shifted in his peripheral vision, but glancing around revealed nothing, so he returned to the heads. Some were expressionless, but others suggested the previous owner had probably suffered. Tom guessed one had been boiled alive, possibly in oil, prompting him to wonder who bought such objects? Were they intended as a form of decoration; something to spruce up your living room? The sign above the door was understated, with an inscription in Gothic text: _Noggin & Bonce: purveyors of traditional shrunken heads & miscellany. _There was a plaque beside the window display, which contained the following strapline: _Quality noddles, in want of shoulders._

Tom pressed on. Night had fallen and he was keen to find out what his wand was so interested in. The alley narrowed further, until you might mistake it for someone's front path. To his right was a shop with slender windows, one of which contained an iron coffin. It was embedded with sprocket wheels and circled by chains; presumably to keep whatever was inside, from escaping. There was a wingback chair in maroon leather, which had twin cushions above: for customers with a second head. The sign over the window was expensive, with hand-carved scrolls announcing: _Borgin & Burkes_ and above the brass knocker was the number _13b_. Tom pushed the door open.

A short man with hair in limited supply and huge earlobes, stood on the other side. He smiled and Tom wondered whether he'd been standing there all day.

The man introduced himself.

'Ah. Good evening sir. I am Alwyne Nimble Forbes-timpani and it greatly pleases me to welcome you, most warmly to our establishment, Borgin & Burkes. I am and ever shall be, at your disposal.' He bowed a fraction of an inch.

'Hello...' Tom instantly forgot the shopkeeper's name.

'Anything you might be in the market for, sir?' Forbes-timpani enquired, eyebrows raised and shaking his head.

'Just browsing, if that's all right?'

'Browse away,browse away dear fellow. I shall remain here. Rooted to the spot!'

Tom nodded and wandered further in. There was plenty to keep him occupied and putting some distance between himself and Forbes-timpani — despite his friendliness — seemed like a good idea.

There were boxwood cabinets; oil paintings; oak dressers; locked ebony chests; pikes; shields; dining chairs; pendulum clocks; lamps; carved and embossed trinket boxes; brass scuttles; wrought iron tools and fire-screens. The kind of stock found in high-end, antique shops, with one difference. On closer inspection, the drawer handles were goblin heads and the fire screen depicted eternal damnation. Relief work on the dresser showed a person being dismembered; while nearby, an amused crowd cheered and waved. A disturbing collection and totally at odds with the friendly service.

Lying face down on a dresser, was a mahogany paddle which Tom picked up. Turning it over, he discovered it was a hand mirror. The fretwork on the back showed a beautiful woman, with one hand held to her head in exclamation and the other fending off something unseen. He wanted it. Tom would have wanted it even more, if he'd known it once belonged to his mother.

He stared into the mirror and saw the innkeeper from The Leaky Cauldron staring back. The hand holding the mirror, was also no longer his, so he glanced around the shop and saw an oval, wall mirror hanging nearby. In it, he saw Tom the innkeeper's reflection too. Forbes-timpani appeared on cue.

'An interesting piece, you might say.'

'What's happening to me?' Desperation had crept into Tom's voice.

Forbes-timpani chose his words carefully. 'When looking into the mirror, one assumes the identity, of the person one has in mind. The effect remains, until one looks in the mirror a second time.'

Tom held up the mirror and saw his own reflection again. Possibilities flooded his mind; this could prove more than useful when he returned to Wool's. As if reading his mind, Forbes-timpani warned: 'its use in the muggle world is, of course, strictly forbidden. On pain of investigation by the ministry.'

'The ministry?'

'The Ministry of Magic, sir. It…' Forbes-timpani was searching for the right phrase. 'It is enchanted by some, very dark magic indeed.'

Tom interrupted. 'I'd like to buy it.'

'It commands a considerable price, sir.'

'I have money.'

'Eleven galleons, four sickles, or fourteen galleons over three instalments.'

'I'll take it for eleven and four.'

'As one wishes.'

Tom counted the galleons from his leather pouch. Forbes-timpani wrapped the mirror in thick brown paper, which lent the package an ordinary appearance. 'There is a little change sir. You'll find the purse within, wrapped alongside the mirror.'

Tom took the parcel. 'Thank you, Mr... Forbes-timpani.' He remembered his name just in time.

'A most pleasant evening to you. Please mind how you go, sir. There are, I regret, unsavoury types in the neighbourhood.'

'I'll be careful.'

Tom left the shop and retraced his steps. He expected Forbes-timpani to change his mind and run after him, demanding the mirror back. His imagination was cartwheeling with possibilities; he could change his life at Wool's with this mirror. Whoever the magical ministry was, they would obviously need sorting. He already had ways of hiding his abilities at the orphanage, but avoiding dark magic detection was likely to be more of a challenge.

Convinced he was being followed, Tom felt relieved when he rejoined Diagon Alley. At the top of the hill, he saw the leaky cauldron hanging above the wall and relaxed.

It was true, Tom had been thinking about the innkeeper back in Borgin & Burkes; he wanted to ensure he hadn't forgotten how to return to his room, despite taking precautions. Tom took out his wand and pointed it at the wall. It steered itself, lightly tapping out a clockwise circle, then the bricks rotated and he was standing in front of The Leaky Cauldron's rear entrance. He closed the wall behind him, opened the back door and crossed the bar: which was now empty. Twisting his key in the door, he was back in room six: with its panoramic view of London's chimney stacks. He sat on the bed, laying out his purchases; Tom turned the wand over several times in his hand, then opened the mirror. There was a pouch packed inside, containing his change, so he upended it and out tumbled 11 galleons and 4 sickles, clinking heavily on the bedspread. Tom stared for over a minute at the coins, trying to make sense of it; the mirror had cost him nothing. Why had Forbes-timpani gone to the trouble of taking his money, only to return it?

Tom changed for bed and pulled back the sheets, turning the day's events over in his mind. At that moment he made himself a promise: to throw everything into his education at Hogwarts; he was still an outsider in this world, but less so after today. Although uncomfortable at first, it would become a little easier as each day passed. Tom blew out the candle beside his bed, pinched the smouldering wick and fell asleep. Grateful he was too tired to think about tomorrow and the overwhelming prospect of starting a new school.

* * *

The next morning, Tom propped himself against the headboard. His dreams had been especially vivid and it was a shock to wake up somewhere other than Wool's, so he took several minutes to find his bearings. He'd dreamed about his parents, something which had only happened two or three times in his life. His father was indistinct in the dream and referred to Tom as _the boy_. He saw his mother's face and was now clinging to it, trying to preserve the image; she'd been kind and caring, asking if he felt better.

Then he snapped to attention. Today was the day! Hogwarts beckoned and as the joining instructions warned him: _the train always leaves on time_. He washed his face with a flannel, dressed and packed his belongings; except the cauldron, which he planned to carry. Tom took his case down to breakfast, so he could leave straight afterwards. Last night's dream hadn't been a dream, it felt like a distant echo from the past.

Tom faced the windows in the downstairs bar. Another couple were eating breakfast nearby, otherwise it was deserted; as bars tend to be early in the day. The lower windows were shuttered, so light entered by a strip of window above; it was enough to prevent bumping into things, but drained the room of any colour. Breakfast was a thick slice of bacon, a hunk of bread and a mug of tea; unappetising to look at, but tasty enough. Just as Tom finished his tea, a man in a bowler hat and a charcoal greatcoat entered the bar; he flexed a rolled up newspaper between both hands, before raising a knuckle to his hat-brim. Tom the innkeeper shouted over.

'Master Riddle. This here's Aubrey Rance. He's taking you to King's Cross this morning.'

Tom grabbed his belongings and crossed the bar.

He turned to the landlord before leaving.

'Thank you.'

'I'm sure you'll do well up there, young man.'

The innkeeper sounded genuine and despite hardly knowing him, Tom was grateful for his approval.

Tom's ride was a black hansom cab, parked beside the kerb; it looked out of place among the motor cars, with their flared wheel arches and modern chrome grills. People and traffic weaved around the cab and there was no shortage of that at eight-thirty in the morning. Commuters hurrying to work, hopping over puddles; horns flaring; newsmen recommending their early editions; windblown drizzle and everyone scurrying to beat the clock. Excitement rose from Tom's stomach and the soles of his feet tingled.

A chestnut horse was pulling the hansom cab; anxious to get going, it now shifted its weight from hoof to hoof. Blinkers attached to its bridle, were studded with brass and a purple plume sprouted between its ears. The horse flicked its head several times, spraying Tom with rain water.

Rance opened up the hansom cab, which had two doors across the seat; they swung forward to reveal a black leather bench, so Tom climbed up. The driver then shut the doors, protecting Tom's lower half from wind and spray. He swung the suitcase and cauldron onto his own seat: behind the cab and above Tom's head. 'You might want to hold tight,' he shouted above the grizzling traffic. 'Yahh!' The horse broke into a canter, clipping its hooves across the tarmac.

It veered onto Charing Cross Road, narrowly missing a maroon Austin pulling up to the kerb. They were now on a collision course with a truck, its flatbed loaded high with damp sacks of coal; Tom braced himself for impact, putting a hand up and closing his eyes. They accelerated right through the truck and its sacks of coal, which left a smudge on Tom's forearm. At Cambridge Circus, another flick of the whip broke the air to their left, so they swerved right towards Wyndham's Theatre. Crossing the auditorium unseen, they ploughed through the theatre stalls, passing the stage just below eye-level; where carpenters were adding the final touches to a country-mansion set. The cab burst through the rear wall and across a row of back gardens, before heading north in a broad arc. 'Smiler only knows _them_ old routes round London!' Rance shouted from the driver's seat.

 _Kit would love this_ , was all Tom could think. The cab then passed through a stationary bus, beside Holborn Tube station, so Tom reached out and ruffled a businessman's morning paper on the way past. The gentleman looked up, shook the kink from his page and continued reading. Finally they slowed and came to a stop beside the Euston Road entrance of King's Cross station. Rance flipped open the seat doors and helped Tom down to the kerb, where his luggage was already waiting for him.

'Happy trails sir,' Rance pushed a knuckle to his hat-brim again. Tom paid him a sickle, insisting he keep the 5 knuts change. ' _Thanking_ you, sir. Much obliged.' The doors were repacked in double-time, then the cab swung round and was off; travelling east towards Regent's Park and passing through every scrap of traffic en route.

With nearly two hours to kill until the train departed, Tom found himself a bench and watched the world go by. He wanted to be far too early and certain of catching his train, than to leave anything to chance. At ten-thirty he gathered his belongings and went in search of the Hogwarts Express; this part of the journey was especially vague. He was supposed to find platform 9¾, which every Londoner knew, didn't exist; platforms had whole numbers, because fractions would only lead to chaos during rush hour. His rather basic plan was to identify other magical folk and tag along.

Which was better as an idea, than it played out in practice. After ten minutes of looking, Tom now had less than twenty before the train left. He'd eavesdropped passers by, but so far, no luck. Then he saw a pair of children that looked promising; the daughter was around his age and the son, a couple of years older. Their mother, a woman with red hair wearing a pale-green coat, was behaving in a decidedly shifty manner. She stopped frequently to rearrange her spectacles, or remove imaginary soot from her eye. After checking in her pocket mirror and now certain they were unobserved, she shooed the children towards a brick pillar; Tom watched their reflection in a glass-fronted cabinet, protecting train timetables. The children passed straight through the pillar. The mother teased her hair and checked the mirror again; satisfied no one had seen, she hurried towards the refreshment rooms for a cup of tea.

Tom looped round the track from platform eight and touched the brickwork; it was solid. Not surprisingly, since the arches were holding up a significant portion of the roof. He was getting more of a feel for how magic worked now: attitude was a significant factor. Tom backed up and ran towards the pillar, prepared to rebound painfully if he was wrong. Just before impact, there was a sucking sound; the soles of his feet popped, as he was plucked from the platform, then returned with a ringing slap.

He was now surrounded by an entirely different King's Cross. A modern, maroon steam engine ahead, flooded the platform with steam; the smell of coal dust wafted from the tender and there was a buzz of excitement along the crowded platform. Porters wheeled trunks and pigeons sprinted by, nodding their heads. Each group featured its own miniature drama: tears; forced laughter; nervous chit-chat; hugs and a young boy shaking his father's hand for the first time. They were interrupted by the guard, wearing a navy frock coat with scarlet piping.

'Ten minutes to departure! I thank you!'

Goodbyes were hurried along and some children broke away to board the train: seven carriages, plus a baggage car. Tom was aware he stood out, by having no family group or trunk. He couldn't imagine what you would put in something so large as a trunk.

Tom threaded between the groups and overheard snatches of conversation. Promises to send regular owls; to eat properly; to stop snivelling; _don't forget about us_ and a host of other last minute requests and assurances. On reflection, Tom was glad he could slip aboard quietly and joined a carriage near the front: which smelled strongly of beeswax polish. It was broken into separate compartments joined by a connecting corridor, unlike the local trains in Deptford. He found an empty one and picked a window seat; stowing his case and cauldron in the netting above. Then, once all movement had stopped, his self-consciousness returned.

The guard shouted: 'Thank-you-ladies-and-gentleman!' Compressing all the words into one and a flood of students scrambled for the doors.

The compartment filled with two girls and two other boys. No one said a word, but each was painfully aware of the greetings and laughter coming from other parts of the train. In their compartment, full of new starters, everyone continued to avoid eye-contact. They focussed on knots in the woodwork, or counted how many ceiling bulbs were above. Two stared out of the window, hoping their families wouldn't see them and start waving.

Minutes passed, eternal, tortuous minutes; it was now too late for introductions, so the silence continued. No one had a topic of conversation they were keen to start, yet they desperately wanted to explain who they were. To reassure others: _I'm not so bad once you get to know me_. They just couldn't. One of the girls twisted her fingers around one another. The guard's whistle shrieked and fell away, as the whining finally stopped; the pistons compressed with a chug and the train inched forward. There was a shout: 'Hold that train Mister Shaw!' And the brakes brought them to a hard stop. Everyone smiled in their compartment, but conversation still escaped them. They heard a carriage door open, then slam shut, before another brief whistle and the guard shouting.

'Take-her-away-Mr-Shaw-if-you-please!'

The compartment door drew back and a boy of eleven or twelve entered, filling the silence.

'All right people. That one taken?' He asked, pointing at the seat beside Tom. Who now noticed that everyone had kept their distance from him.

'No,' Tom said.

'Don't mind if I do.' The dark-haired boy was wearing a houndstooth check suit, with a pair of two-tone, wingtip brogues. His newsboy cap matched the suit and was wider than a dinner plate. Tom knew from growing up in the docks, that it was a style popular in the north of England.

He offered his hand to Tom. 'Gary Box. Currently giving Manchester a try, but prime Yorkshire, through and through.' He pinched a cheek, to test his authenticity.

'Tom Riddle.' He shook Gary's hand.

One of the girls was smiling, 'I like your hat.'

The previously-twisting-her-fingers-girl giggled. Tom thought at first they were laughing at the boy.

Gary shot upright, twizzled his hat, flipped it into the air and caught it on his head.

'He shoots, he scores!' Showbiz style, Gary dropped to one knee.

The girl, who minutes earlier was ready to cry, clapped excitedly and the others laughed. They weren't laughing at him, they were laughing with him. In two minutes the boy had turned a compartment of desperate children, into a supporting fan club. It was a stunning display of charisma, the most stunning Tom had ever seen. He himself, could make people do what he wanted in certain circumstances, but this was different. They were influenced by Gary, because they wanted to be.

'Sorry 'bout the delay folks,' Gary now stood in the rocking carriage, gripping a luggage net above him.

'I was hungry, see? It's been that long since breakfast...' He took out his pocket watch and stared at the face.

'...at least thirty minutes by my reckoning. So. Catch a train, or catch a pie? Pie, train? Train, pie?' He snapped his fingers.

'Both! Sounds simple now I say it. I tell you what though, that guard'll not forget me in a hurry. This one's marked for life. Still, the pie _were_ nice.'

Gary peppered his performance with expressions and mimes, dusting his jacket, dabbing at the corners of his mouth; the gestures of a seasoned, stand-up comic. Now the ice was broken, everyone shared their names. The suburbs of north London slipped behind them, as they got to know one another; thanks to Gary Box. Appearing all over the north of England, at a theatre near you.

* * *

Several hours passed and the landscape outside the windows altered dramatically; they were in the industrial north, with its clanking factories, mills and colliery shafts. Forests of chimney stacks discharged soot upwards, before it drifted down over the terraced housing below. Homes with identical yards and washing lines, followed contours in the landscape. They shot from a tunnel and below them a town sprawled; manufactories and rolling mills at the centre, with furious clouds rearing up behind the peaks: preparing to offload. The train passed through a marshalling yard beside the steelworks and the odour of scorched foundry earth, seeped into the carriage.

Tom was staring out of the window. Conversation had died down an hour earlier, when the monotony of their journey set in and the train's rocking motion, made an afternoon nap hard to resist. Gary sitting beside him, was staring at the scenery; Tom's alien landscape, was Gary's home.

' _Me_ grandad lives in Rotherham, just over the hill there.' Gary pointed to the east. 'Used to take us fishing on our holidays. Get out of town for a bit. You been up north before?'

'No.' Tom opened up, 'it's the first time I've left London. I was born there.'

'What about family? Aunts, uncles and the like?' Gary asked.

'No. I live in an orphanage. Wool's. I don't have any family.'

Tom never told people he met, anything about his upbringing. He wasn't sure why he'd picked this moment to change the habit of a lifetime.

Without missing a beat, Gary nodded.

' _Me_ mate Alan's an orphan too, no one treats him _different_ round our way. We don't pick and choose how we come into this world. Or leave it.' There was a pause.

'Have you been to London often?' Tom continued the conversation.

'Once or twice, when _I were_ younger. _Me_ uncle works there, see? On the Underground, so I stopped over for a week this time. What about that Buckingham Palace, eh? I stood there on The Mall, looking up and trying to work out what each _of them_ rooms were for. Sleeping, putting your feet up, looking out the window of, eating in? Hundreds of 'em. Couldn't stop thinking about it: all that space. I daydream you see. It's my chosen occupation. Hogwarts will make those daydreams a reality. Our family's banking on it.'

Tom watched Gary as he spoke. They looked different, sounded different, came from different backgrounds, but when you peeled those differences away. They had a surprisingly similar outlook.

'Ey up, Rip Van Winkle's stirring.' Gary tossed a sweet wrapper onto the head of a nearby boy, who smiled back.

By late afternoon the landscape changed again. They crossed the border into Scotland, through the heath lowlands and were now steaming between crags and bottomless lochs. The sky spread wide and tall, leaving ample headroom for the misty Munros. Beams burned through broken cloud and the sun lit curtains of rain heading north-west. From overhead, the maroon train inched across the landscape, puffing dots of steam.

The mood in the carriage revived, after a prolonged bout of snoozing; leftover sandwiches, books and previously hidden toys were repacked. Everyone took turns to change into their school robes and then they sat forward in expectation. Aware that the Hogwarts Express was just the orchestra tuning up; the symphony was about to begin. Nerves fluttered around the compartment, as they were now joining the bottom of a strict pecking order. You could be permanently labelled for any mistakes made over the next few weeks. Most were trying to smile, but any older students would recognise a nervous smile when they saw it.

The engine's whistle released two energetic blasts and the train entered a valley between three peaks. Braking gently, there was just enough light to see the retreating _Hogsmeade_ platform signs, before they came to a halt. Their carriage was full of new starters, who had no idea what to do next.

Gary Box pulled down the window, using a flap of leather and shouted.

'Can we have a porter up here please?' He ducked his head back in, smiling and rubbing his hands together. 'Looks like we're shifting our own gear, fellow _Hogwartians!_ '

Everyone gathered their belongings and stepped onto the platform. They stood in bunches as the trunks were unpacked onto a vintage wooden trolley, pulled around by nothing at all.

An older boy in a prefect's tie and robes, was delighted to see so many new starters paralysed by nerves. He cut through the crowd, which parted timidly and hopped onto a platform bench.

'New starters, listen to me... Settle down! I have some important notices for you all.'

Instant silence followed.

'Forget about your bags and trunks, they'll be taken to a holding area until you're sorted into houses, then forwarded on. The beginning-of-term supper starts in an hour, then you'll be sorted directly after. Your house will notify you which classes to attend, where you sleep, etcetera. As it's stopped raining, we're walking from the station to Hogwarts; which should put some oomph back into you. Usually you'll need a permission slip to be in Hogsmeade at this time and certain goods from the shops here require a chit. You'll pick all that up in time. So, let's go... And keep the chatter down. We've a good relationship with our neighbours in the town and we'd like to keep it that way.'

'He's like a dog with two tails _._ ' Gary whispered to Tom.

They stretched into an extended crocodile of pairs, heading away from town and through a pass between two spurs; there were conifers on the lower slopes, with shattered rock faces and gorse higher up. It was past twilight now and a pleasant aroma of heather and fresh rain accompanied them. On the other side of the pass, they caught their first glimpse of Hogwarts: a Gothic castle with minarets, towers and turrets, topped by copper finials. It overlooked a water-filled valley and hundreds of lancet windows burned warmly. Apparently there was a charm, the prefect leading informed them, that prevented students from exploring the grounds without permission. Everyone believed him, except Tom and Gary.

Tom was currently lost in his thoughts, as many were. It was real now. Up to this point, Hogwarts was just something which would happen one day in the future. That day had arrived and surprising themselves, the new starters accepted the fact without fuss.


	3. III: An Unpromising Start

**III - An Unpromising Start**

The new starters were ushered into a holding area when they arrived at Hogwarts. The spartan room had settles arranged in rows, with a raised platform and lectern at the front. It overlooked a quadrangle, had two small paintings and a hanging tapestry, but felt cold and impersonal. The stone walls leaned oppressively and coughing produced punchy echoes. Another prefect, who didn't introduce himself, sat at the front pretending to read a book. Tom grew up in an institution and instantly recognised what he was doing. It was the prefect's first brush with power and despite being thrilled, he was trying his hardest to appear bored. The title of his book: _Transfiguration and Disfiguration: Form and Function Dichotomies_ , spread unease around the room; it made no sense and underlined their woeful lack of experience. Tom knew this was the intended effect; the book was propped up so everyone could read the title.

The prefect stood and began writing on the board behind him with a stub of chalk. He wrote the following:

1\. Headmaster

2\. Senior professor

3\. Heads of houses

4\. Senior form tutors

5\. Professors

6\. Teaching support staff

7\. Support staff

8\. Head boy/girl

9\. House captains

10\. School prefects

11\. House prefects

12\. Monitors

13\. Upper sixth

14\. Lower sixth

15\. Fifth form

16\. Fourth form

17\. Third form

18\. Second form

19\. First form

When finished, he explained that this was the school's hierarchy; the rank order of precedence. He stabbed the words _First form_ with his chalk.

'That's you, down there at the bottom. If anyone above you, which is me and everyone not in this room, says jump. You ask: how high?'

He'd obviously rehearsed the speech and was disgustingly pleased with himself. Most were intimidated by the sheer number of people they now answered to. The prefect sat down, ignoring someone who had their hand up and pretended to read his book again. Fifteen minutes passed.

A character in the painting by the door yawned, shook the pins and needles from his feet and went in search of a more interesting view. After the excitement of Hogsmeade and the dressing down from their lordly prefect, they'd reached an emotional plateau.

Before disappointment set in, the door opened and a girl wearing a prefect's tie announced. 'They're ready for you.' The room emptied and everyone filed along the corridor to the Great Hall. They would now be observed, examined and evaluated, by the rest of the school.

As the new starters entered, everyone turned to stare; while stars in the enchanted ceiling, gradually revolved above their heads. The headmaster — Professor Armando Dippet — was a tall man with a positive demeanour, but forlorn features. He had a habit of rubbing one palm over his balled fist, especially if he was seeking agreement and his grey hair was swept back in a man-plait. Despite a tendency for kindness, his face became terrifying when he widened his eyes and his speaking voice was deep: echoing from the far corners with ease.

'We've only just begun to... Ahem... Enchant the ceiling above you. You will be able to see the stars of course, but this is nothing to what we have planned. A work in progress, you might say…' He tailed off and was greeted by polite, rather than enthusiastic applause.

Four long tables, each decked in house colours, were laid with silver cutlery and gilded crockery. They were groaning with sandwiches; venison pies; sausages on sticks; cheese cubes with pineapple chunks; slices of pork and beef; apple and horseradish sauces; vegetable flans and quiches; crispy loaves; soft rolls and pats of creamy butter. Handmade crisps; crackers; cheeses and pickles; jelly; trifle; ice cream — which didn't melt — chocolate fingers and buttons. Layer cakes; fruit tarts; strawberry sponges; treacle lattices; thick cream; custard and jugs of pumpkin juice: fizzy or still. The unsorted first formers were shown to their place at the front of the hall, several yards forward of the other pupils.

After they were seated, the feast could begin; instantly, the hall erupted in excited chatter between mouthfuls. There was a tendency with students as they got older, to be above all the face stuffing, but there really was no better way start a school year. After forty-five minutes the pace slowed, with most having eaten far more than necessary. Dippet stood up, raised his wand and with a flick of the wrist, the feast was gone. Dirty plates, cutlery, cups, spillages: everything they no longer wanted to see.

Dippet introduced key staff members to the new pupils, via a long-winded and at times, incomprehensible speech. Pupils' attention frequently wandered to the stars crawling across the ceiling above.

'Now we must move on to sorting the new intake, as tradition dictates. Professor McAlistair, The Sorting Hat, if you please?'

McAlistair was already standing beside Dippet, holding The Sorting Hat. Awkwardness followed as Dippet pretended to look surprised, then he placed the hat on an ancient stool: said to predate Hogwarts. Dippet produced a scroll from the folds of his robes. Far and away the grandest robes in the room, displaying colour flashes from each of the four houses.

The Sorting Hat yawned, cleared its throat and shared a new song with the school:

 _Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw,_

 _Slytherin and Gryffindor._

 _Though we battle, head-to-head,_

 _With knowledge gained, we strive to spread,_

 _Never friends, let it be said,_

 _Along our path, alone we tread._

 _Slytherin, Gryffindor,_

 _Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw._

The smattering of applause was interrupted.

'Robert Peyton-Reed!' Dippet boomed.

'Yes, up here lad, on the stool. That's the ticket. On your head now, it's not bitten anyone in years.'

As the hat touched Peyton-Reed's head, it blasted out _Hufflepuff!_ Robert replaced the hat and joined his cheering house, who found him a place to sit.

'Marjory Phillips! That's it, put it on. It's not a test of ingenuity, Marjory.'

This time the hat was more considered, weighing matters up before announcing: 'Gryffindor. Almost certainly Gryffindor.' A delighted Marjory joined her new house.

So it went on for twenty more minutes, before the headmaster shouted.

'Gary Box!'

Gary shouted back.

'On my way, headmaster!'

There was self-conscious sniggering from the remaining new starters, but stony silence from the existing students; Dippet did not appreciate cheeky banter from juniors. Although Hogwarts may not technically belong to Dippet, it always felt like hisschool. Most put Gary's behaviour down to first-night nerves. The headmaster's eyes blazed like tiny suns, so Gary smiled as he held The Sorting Hat above his head. Once lowered it pretended to think, before announcing deadpan.

'The overflowing talents of this young man. Where do I begin? Ooh I know...' It perfectly mimicked Gary, '...Let's chuck him in Slytherin.'

Dippet watched Gary join an amused Slytherin house, who found his performance funny now that he was one of them. The headmaster felt torn. He might decide to let the incident slide, but future disrespect from a junior pupil, could not be treated so lightly.

The group of unsorted students grew smaller, while the intensity of stares from sorted and existing students increased. Including Tom noticed, those that were sitting alongside him minutes earlier.

'Tom Riddle!'

Tom rose to his feet. Surprisingly tall for his age, with thick hair that flopped as he walked and bottle-green eyes. A nearby Gryffindor girl, several years older, nudged feet with her best friend and raised her eyebrows a fraction; Tom had presence and any house would be happy to have him. Students leaned in closer when he sat on the stool and lowered the hat.

The Sorting Hat ummed-and-ahhed before voicing its thoughts. 'He's like royalty. A prince in exile. Overflowing with talent, few can aspire to. Yes, I'm sure of that. Hard worker, self-improver, thoughtful and wise. To hamper such ambition, well…? Is surely a sin. Better be… Slytherin!' Staff exchanged glances with one another. The Sorting Hat — unlike themselves — appeared to know who Tom Riddle was.

Relieved, Tom joined the Slytherin table and was met by Gary Box, who gave up his seat for him. Gary addressed his housemates.

'His Highness, Tom Riddle. Just back from exile!' Slytherin cheers greeted Gary's announcement and their amusement spread across the hall.

The headmaster remained uneasy. The Sorting Hat's magic was not fully understood and it was known to behave unusually, but claiming students were royalty? Unheard of!

* * *

After sorting, academic notices were presented by various staff members, especially to those sitting O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. It reminded new starters what ultimately awaited them — difficult exams — though many years away, everyone assured them that time would fly by. Dippet announced that supper was officially over and there was an almighty scraping of benches as everyone stood up. Prefects instructed the first formers to sit back down; they would be led to their houses, once the others had cleared the passages.

Gary leaned in to Tom.

'Slytherin's down below. Not much of a view I'm told, but the facilities are good. Head of house is Professor Slughorn, taken over this year. _Ol' Sluggy_. Not too bad, fights his corner for Slytherin, but likes to collect favourites.'

Tom was wary when he heard this. Becoming a favourite would bring privileges, but he was probably Parnaby's least favourite at Wool's. Tom had no past form for being someone's favourite.

Slughorn was a professor of potions, head of house and collected favourites as others did stamps or train numbers. Opposing every part of his orphanage upbringing, Tom would try to become a favourite. He knew from experience with Parnaby, that you couldn't look like you wanted something: that always inflated the price. It was essential to act like you could take it or leave it.

Gary continued.

'My parents work for the Ministry o' Magic, but they chose to bring us up in a muggle neighbourhood. Best of both worlds, see? Slughorn, he can be very muggle-like, with his elite groups.'

Each house was led away in turn, some mouthing _good luck_ to their new acquaintances from the train, destined to be shaped by other houses. Slytherin was left till last. A pair of older boys and a girl, probably taking their N.E.W.T.s at the end of the year, inspected the new intake. 'Everybody happy?' Asked one of the boys grinning.

'Yeah, not so bad. Yourself?' Gary skirted just the right side of cheeky.

'Ooh, you've got a live one.' The girl flashed her eyes.

'I don't know if you're aware, but you are, without doubt, the most beautiful woman I've seen all day.' Gary said.

Against all expectations, the girl blushed and said nothing. Stumped into silence.

'I promise I'll say no more.' Gary mimed zipping his mouth.

The fun was over, so the group of three decided to leave, but not before one said. 'Don't let James Darling give you a hard time.'

Several minutes passed before the prefect who pretended to read the book earlier, came striding in.

'Follow me and keep up. You don't want to get lost in Hogwarts' dungeons, trust me.'

They crossed the foyer to the left and headed down the changing staircases; left again, then down a further flight of stairs, before more corridors. How were you supposed to remember this labyrinth? There were no lost pupils littering the corridors, so presumably you understood the layout eventually. Along the stone passages were candles in wrought iron sconces, with decorative brass snakes below and dormitories accessible on either side. They descended another flight of stairs, towards the house common room and approached an area of bare stone between two hefty buttresses. It contained the portrait of a woman looking to their left; her claret dress was torn and dotted with scorch marks. Jim Darling, with insufferable smugness, said, 'from ambition springs forth excellence.' The woman rolled her eyes without bothering to look at them, then blew a strand of hair from her face. The stone transformed into billowing fabric and drew back on either side.

Slytherin common room had a cavernous vaulted ceiling, of the kind found in mausoleums and decorative hangings and tapestries, lent the room's stone walls some colour. There were two suits of armour flanking the fireplace: one standing head bowed with a resting sword between its feet, the other animated in attack, sword high and preparing to strike. Varnished walnut panelling with filigree carving, covered the back wall and a candle chandelier was suspended above. The room was imposing and silenced the group, while nearby, Jim Darling puffed with pride. The stone hearth was topped by a broad mantel, containing house cups, shields and awards. Cherished photos of Slytherin academic and sporting stars, were slotted between the cups. In the grate a log fire crackled, baking everyone within range and standing before it with thumbs tucked behind his lapels, was Professor Horace Slughorn: Head of Slytherin House.

Jim Darling stood to the right of Slughorn, who began his new-starter speech. He explained that he was a new head of house, but no stranger to Slytherin; it was his own house while at Hogwarts, _many moons ago_. Slughorn covered the basics of their life as part of the Slytherin family. The form system began with the first, then the second (both junior). Followed by third, fourth and fifth (middle), then finally upper and lower sixth (senior). Baffling to those listening, Slughorn dispensed information, as if everyone were taking notes they could refer to later. He rambled and refused to follow scripts or prompts, often tapping the side of his head and saying, _it's all up here!_ Slughorn moved on to Jim Darling, basking nearby in his aura.

'Then of course there's my right-hand man, quite literally: Jim Darling. Son of Theodorus Darling, our esteemed Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. If you know anything about the Wizengamot? Which judging by your puzzled expressions, you don't… No matter. I'd be lost without my Jim, eh?'

Jim Darling beamed with such unbridled delight, it was very nearly touching. He was also terrified that at any moment, the praise might stop.

Slughorn continued.

'Nancy Donnellan, who's just joined us, is our other Slytherin House Captain; if you'd be good enough Nancy to take the girls up to their dormitories? This evening's excitement has finally got the better of them.'

He noted and namechecked several departing girls from significant families. Slughorn's gaze returned to the group of first form boys.

'Ah Mr Box, I hope you're not going to prove too much trouble. I shan't hesitate to bend your father's ear, if you are!'

'Not part of the plan, Professor Slughorn.'

Slughorn's gaze settled on Tom. A flicker of emotion passed over his face: was it irritation, disappointment, disinterest? He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came, so he moved along, ignoring Tom.

'Ignatius Horne, I'm a long time admirer of your grandmother's work and we continue to be grateful for her generous legacy.'

They were finally shown to their beds. Gary and Tom were billeted together, on opposite sides of the dorm, but Gary swapped with Tom's neighbour before unpacking. After lights out, Tom stared up at the darkness; some would be feeling homesick now, with the unfamiliar smells and surroundings, but not him. Wool's was already a distant memory.

Fifteen minutes later and almost sleep, Tom heard a stage whisper.

'Tom! Pssst.' It was Gary.

'I'm bloody freezing, _what say you_ we nip back to the common room and warm our tootsies by the roaring fire?' Saying no to Gary, was already proving difficult.

They tiptoed along the corridor. Then Gary repeated the password and both of them sneaked into the common room; leaping across the flagstones near the entrance. Neither were wearing slippers and the floor was like pond ice. The fire, despite being orange embers, still threw out tremendous heat. Gary cackled, 'Ooh, that's hit the spot.' The room flooded with light and Jim Darling strode towards them, hands lost in the folds of his robes.

'Out of bed on our first night? Well… That's an unpromising start.' He whistled at their astounding stupidity.

Both boys returned his gaze, though Jim would have preferred more anxious staring at the floor.

'Do you know who I am?' Jim contorted his face.

'Jim... Darling?' Gary's mouth shrugged: making Jim's surname sound like a term of endearment. It was a joke that had accompanied him everywhere for the last six years and he certainly wasn't going to tolerate it from a lowly first former.

Tom flinched, desperate to laugh out loud.

'James Darling. We don't know each other, so it'll always be Mister Darling to you, Box.'

'Yes, Mister Darling.'

'You're on house report, both of you. Inspections at eight-thirty after breakfast and seven-forty-five each evening: on the dot. I don't tolerate lateness and you're on my list now. Slip up and I'll be all over you.' Jim was an inch from Gary's ear, circling behind him.

'Get out of my sight _._ '

They leapt over the freezing slabs, Gary suppressing his laughter. ' _Me_ ship's come in, Tom! Jim Darling wants to be _all over me_.'

* * *

Tom and Gary stood beside their beds at eight-thirty the next morning. Most found it disorientating when they awoke in their dormitory, with a only few windows near the ceiling. Not Tom: Hogwarts was a huge improvement on his usual sleeping arrangements. They hurried through breakfast, where second formers warned them not to be late, or fail the inspection. _Do the punishment right_ , one advised, _or Jimbo will be on your case till he leaves._

Since he and Gary were alone in the dormitory, Tom took the opportunity to practice a spell he'd used at Wool's. With no access to tutors, books or learning, the skills he'd developed came from intuition and dreams. The dreams were variations on a standard theme. Powerful storms, hill-splitting thunder accompanied by incantations; books with decorative text and sequences of unrelated visions. Someone placing an enormous hand on his head and whispering voices from unseen locations. They demonstrated ideas and words, which later produced predictable effects; being more a reminder of what he already knew, than a form of teaching.

When Professor Dumbledore came to see him earlier that year, Tom had acted childishly; too keen to show what he was capable of. It was not obvious at the time, but foolish on reflection. Dumbledore was at the supper last night and watched him carefully during the sorting. Tom had already decided to avoid Dumbledore at Hogwarts; he would master transfiguration on his own and give Dumbledore no reason to know him. Tom would keep his spell casting abilities private and turn in school work of the highest standard. Gary could be trusted and Gary clearly trusted him, but he was the exception. Tom opened the black box containing his wand and removed it; swishing the shaft, simply because he loved the sound of it slicing the air. He spoke the incantation, not yet aware that spells could be cast silently.

Gary raised his eyebrows; his friend's wand was a work of art. He also noticed Tom's aggressive claw grip, which gave him the appearance of a professional. As the tip of his wand quivered, a pale-blue fire sprayed in all directions, reconstructing the room in a perfect state; a still photograph, merging with the real world. Beds were made, shoes polished, the floor swept and everything was squared away perfectly. Gary's expression relaxed once he realised he wouldn't have to lift a finger. The room was flawless.

From time to time Gary had seen his parents performing magic, but it was always functional and lacked polish or excitement. Whatever magic Tom was practising, he read very different books to his parents. Perhaps he hadn't mastered non-verbal execution, but for creativity and graceful delivery, he was in another league.

Tom stowed his wand, moments before Jim Darling came striding into the dormitory; while their dorm mates were still enjoying a leisurely breakfast before lessons.

'Stand by your beds, unless you want to do this all year?'

Darling tried to find something to criticise, despite having no interest in extending the punishment. It was an irritation having to remember inspections and a waste of his precious time.

There was nothing to criticise, but Darling combed their lockers several times, before boredom set in. They had taken the punishment seriously and that — after all — was the purpose of the exercise. He imagined them furiously polishing and checking the clock, panicked at the prospect of disappointing House Captain: James Darling. He stopped himself from drifting away.

'Seven-forty-five this evening and don't disappoint me.'

Darling left, strongly doubting he'd be joining them. Punishments were supposed to be for his enjoyment, but this was no fun at all.

'Top bit of wand-work, that,' Gary complimented. 'Now, how 'bout those lessons, eh? Before _Jimbo Darling_ comes running back.'

They took the stairs out of Slytherin and after several corrections, found Hogwarts' main teaching block for their first lesson.

The first lesson was not a lesson at all, but student orientation. The wooden desks smelled of fresh varnish and nerves tingled at skin-level among the first formers; the real business was about to begin. None of them wanted to appear stupid and now they were expected to study subjects, no one knew anything about.

Orientation involved copying their timetable from a row of blackboards at the front of the classroom, then fitting meals and breaks between them. It was reinforced that a library period was not — repeat not — a free period: it was self-directed study. They discovered which classrooms were allotted to each form letter (there were three) and where those classrooms were found. There was also an outline map of the teaching block plus annexes, with accompanying labels. Professor Sam Peacock — a senior form tutor who taught runes — explained that the first two years of study (junior) were a preparatory phase.

'To let pupils find out what they were good at and for Hogwarts to learn something about them.'

Three years of study towards O.W.L.s followed (middle), then the sixth form (senior); where two years were spent studying for N.E.W.T.s.

Gary whispered to Tom.

'Bit early for all this?'

'...And that's lunch!' Announced Professor Peacock, to a half-hearted cheer.

Form 1C — Tom and Garys' — had their first library period between three and four o'clock. The sun emerged from behind a bank of cloud and projected dazzling beams across the west-facing rooms. Forms 1N and 1S, contained the remaining first form students and when they filed out of the library, several pulled snoozing faces for the amusement of those waiting. Gary had already decided that library periods were strictly for recharging his batteries. He was surprised when Tom said he had work to catch up on and left for a less noisy part of the library. So Gary joined a nearby table, who were also running low on steam.

Tom had several projects he intended to tackle during his first year at Hogwarts. First on the list: was his past. He hadn't apparated out of thin air; he was someone's son and possibly of magical origin too. If not, he was the most naturally-gifted muggle-born in history. The month before joining Hogwarts, he'd privately fantasised about having a magical family tree; his origin was of no importance at the orphanage, but Hogwarts was a different matter.

Every member of staff and student had asked him as a matter of course, where he came from. What did his parents do? Did he have brothers or sisters? It highlighted how important family was in social situations, since it provided essential conversational hooks. His second, more recent project: was Slughorn. Slughorn had no interest in him at present, but the man was impressed by connections and ability; he had none of the former, but plenty of the latter. He intended to drip-feed his talent to Slughorn, in controlled doses. Tom required access to all Hogwarts facilities and a steady supply of cover stories: meaning collaboration was essential. He would butter up Slughorn and dazzle him with his magical abilities. Later, he'd introduce the idea that Slughorn was essential to his success at school: not a father-figure perhaps, more of a wise uncle. The kind of mentor brilliant students needed, to launch themselves on an upward trajectory.

Library period signalled the end of their first scheduled day of lessons, but Tom stayed on; something he would become known for at Hogwarts. He'd found two fascinating books and after an hour, had barely got past the introductions. Reading McGinley's _Genealogy and Ancestral Forking_ , he managed to discount several families which might have passed their child to an orphanage. A tiny measure of progress, but time was something Tom had plenty of. He continued with Eanraig Bohr's, _Principles of Potion Synthesis;_ a translation from the Danish text, which mapped traditional potion brewing, onto a more modern, 1930s framework. Tom could not suppress the pleasure he felt inside, so he looked around, half-expecting someone to step forward and put an end to his enjoyment. The book was interesting, but elementary too; ideas were blooming in his mind, relevant ideas, so he reached for some parchment. He'd purchased a quality roll from _Papyrus, Pulp & Paper-free_ in Diagon Alley and began scratching his quill across it. Tom was searching for the right phrase, when he felt a nearby presence. Slughorn was standing directly to his left.

'Wriggle? Tim Wriggle?' Slughorn enquired, impressed with himself for remembering someone of so little importance.

'It's Tom Riddle.'

'Quite similar. Doing a spot of, err…?' _Odin's shiny spear! He can't be revising for exams, it's still the lad's first day._

'Reading, sir. _Genealogy and Ancestral Forking_ , plus…' Tom cringed inwardly, this was going to sound like such an obvious attempt to please Slughorn.

'I'm brushing up on potions.' Tom pushed the books an inch closer.

Slughorn was certifiably potions-crazy and his eyes popped in jubilation. 'Potions eh? Well you're at the right school for potions.' He flicked through the book, his whole demeanour having changed. Nothing brought him greater joy, except perhaps, a few paragraphs of Hogwarts puffery in The Daily Prophet.

'A potions man, eh?' Slughorn scanned the text.

'Not yet professor, but it's a subject I'd like to know better.'

'Slytherin's the right place. If you have a question, then you know who to ask; I'm never far away. _Merlin's Beard_ , Tom! This is no text for a first former. Tough going I expect?' Slughorn was test-driving Tom's name on his lips.

'If you have another suggestion, sir?'

'Try, _Potions: An Introduction_ , by Cavendish. It covers the fundamentals, in a most thorough and interesting way.'

'I found it a little elementary, sir,' Tom couldn't help himself; who did Slughorn think he was? Driftwood, rolling in with the tide?

'A little elementary! I've never heard anything, so…? It's the standard text I've been teaching for as long as I can remember!' Slughorn snorted with derision. 'Elementary…?That's very disappointing!'

He clasped his hands behind his back and left without further comment.

Sitting in the staff room ten minutes later, Slughorn noticed his hands were still trembling. He checked that no one was looking, then removed a crystal dash bottle from his inside pocket; took a nip and rubbed his eyes. That boy had made him more angry than he cared to recall. Tom Riddle? Not a name he'd forget in a hurry.

That night, an hour after lights-out, Tom was under the bed covers. His wand provided just enough light, so he opened a pocket-sized, leather-bound book; _This book is the property of Tom Riddle_ , was written across the flyleaf. It sounded pompous, but Tom had never owned a book before, so was unsure what to write. He channelled the most powerful magic he knew into protecting its contents. Firstly: finding this diary would be next to impossible; it was invisible except to himself and answered to his wand alone. Secondly: it could not be opened. Attempting any kind of entry, would alert him to the fact. Thirdly: it was unreadable. Without the correct incantation, it contained nothing more than meaningless symbols.

After Dumbledore's visit, Tom realised that the only reason he'd shared his abilities, was a burning desire to tell someone. Anyone. Magic was the only exciting part of his life so far and keeping it secret was next to impossible. After Dumbledore left Wool's, he was in Parnaby's study sorting books into alphabetical order. A programme came on the wireless: _The Diary of a Nobody_ , which Parnaby was chuckling along to. Tom realised that diaries were a way of sharing information, while keeping that information secret from others, so he liberated the diary from _Bendals_ on Greenwich High Road, while the cashier had her back turned.

The only sound in his sleeping dormitory, was the scratching of Tom's quill. His relationship with the diary, was closer than most of his relationships with real people. He confided and took risks; emotions that he kept from acquaintances, were freely shared. Tom wrote the entries late at night and was currently relating his encounter with Slughorn.

 _He couldn't remember my name, which sounded deliberate. Probably, I went too far calling his book suggestion elementary, but he was mocking me. Gently mocking, which is obvious now some time has passed, but I've been mocked before. I know that if you don't stand your ground, you invite others to keep taking advantage. I don't regret what I said, but winning Slughorn over will be more difficult now._

Tom closed the diary, tapped the charm pattern onto its front and back covers, then watched it disappear upwards into the darkness. It would eventually settle against the vaulted ceiling, invisible to prying eyes.

* * *

After dinner, a week later, Tom was sitting at his favourite desk in the library. With his back to the wall, he had ample warning of anyone approaching and the window to his left filtered the light falling on his desk, preventing any tiresome glare. The first potions lesson had been a disappointment: Slughorn ignored him and nothing happened; just inductions and talk-throughs of what one day, they might get around to. During one of Slughorn's ramblings, he touched on the _potion facultas:_ a mythical lost draught, similar in spirit to the muggle-world's holy grail. Discovered in 628 AD during the Dark Ages, it was used by court wizards to broker treaties, following border disputes and battles. It lent the subject an appreciation of art, music and learning. Where once a brutal dictator existed, an enlightened thinker now took their place. The potion was lost a century later, in 745 AD, after the Great Northern Tribes identified it as a threat to their expansion plans.

Slughorn had attempted to recreate the potion over the last ten years — as a hobby — despite believing the story to be myth. He thought an educator's primary goal was to instil enthusiasm in their students and what if it were true _?_ His enthusiasm would hopefully lead to their curiosity, which in turn would lead to insight and so on. Ever upwards, towards the summit of enlightenment _._ Slughorn was waffling again.

Tom would reproduce the potion, though obviously not immediately; Slughorn could be irritating, but was no slouch as far as potions were concerned. If he'd got next to nowhere in a decade, then time would still be tight. His first aim was to develop one minor element; if the potion were a crown, he would cut one of its jewels. Perhaps the easiest element, but it might force Slughorn to sit up and take notice.

His first term project was decided; he would extract a thin slice from this sophisticated potion and recreate it for Slughorn. His potion would temporarily alter a person's opinion, to the opposite of their true belief. The concept was very simple: in order to rebuild, you first had to destroy. A complex undertaking for potions professionals and beyond a final year N.E.W.T.s student. For a first former? That person would have to be absurdly arrogant, or in possession of a uniquely-capable mind.

Tom needed access to the restricted section of the library; which he knew might prove difficult, but he had five years of concealing his actions behind him. The Ministry of Magic would be horrified at Tom's ability to cover his spells, using a home-grown camouflage developed in his preschool years. The library staff saw Tom writing industriously, but this was just an impression he'd introduced. An impression which left him free to wander at will.

Access to the restricted section was carefully monitored, but Tom had created an ingenious portal through the bookshelves. The idea came to him while watching one of the school spirits — Rowan Mowbray — drifting through the library looking for company. The charm protecting the shelves, was not as secure as those protecting the entrance and exit, so Tom passed back and forth with the ease of a ghost and aroused no suspicion. Furthermore, his entrance on the far side, was overlooked by a wall without paintings. To the library staff, Tom was a studious young man and that was as far as their opinion extended.

He'd discovered a new book there: _Sense and Desensitising the Spirit_ , by Judith Khan, which had a lock on the front cover. This immediately stirred his interest and it took well over an hour to open. Every page carried warnings and the potions were eye-wateringly complex; however, one chapter systematically demonstrated how each sense, in both magical and muggle folk might be rewired to produce a contrary effect. Tom exhaled deeply and gazed across the landscape; the sun was sinking behind fir trees on the ridge, setting their topsides ablaze. Hogwarts was beautiful in early autumn. Hill vegetation had decayed to biscuit brown, which burnished to gold, as the sunlight glanced across it. There was a hint of chill in the air, after long sunny days and wood smoke rose diagonally at the edge of the estate. At this moment, Tom felt that destiny truly existed; that his life up to now was just a rehearsal. He would unlock the secrets of this elaborate potion and beguile Slughorn's intellect; extracting every useful scrap from Hogwarts, before moving on. Tom would make a lasting impression on both this world and his own.

 _Diary, today I glimpsed the future. I've seen what hard work can achieve and have enough experience in life, to know that most shuffle through it, with no clue where they are going. Cattle that complain when they are herded. Too many expect so little, then aim so low. I plan to set my goals from now on. I'll need help at some point in the future, but I'm not short of time, or possible collaborators._


	4. IV: May I Have a Volunteer?

**IV - May I Have a Volunteer?**

During October, days became shorter and the hint of chilliness grew to a presence. Jumpers were needed when walking to lessons and coats when venturing out. Early November brought a severe cold snap, with condensation of the breath, fingers retracted into sleeves and crunching earth below. It was 7.30am on a Friday morning — the day before Bonfire Night — and the cold was ear-numbing. It dulled sounds from the forests; from rattling horse chains at the felling station and from birds calling to their missing partners.

Tom rose, dressed and rather than take an early breakfast, headed outside. He chose the Dark Tower as an unlikely spot to run into any staff or pupils and took the staircase upwards at a steady pace. The door at the top was locked, so Tom withdrew his wand.

'Alohomora.' Still locked.

He could break through the door, but that was hardly the point if you were trying to keep a low profile. Tom turned the wand on himself.

'Gracilis.' With emphasis on the _lis_ syllable at the end of the word.

He stowed his wand and prepared himself for what would happen next. Tom's head wove from side-to-side, before stretching into a strand of smoke: the kind an extinguished candle produces. He rose upwards, his body rippling to a filament and threaded through the loose-fitting planks; then he wafted to the floor on the other side and reformed from the shoes upwards. It was a graceful display, but unobserved on this frosty morning.

Tom looked over the edge of the tower to the Transfiguration Courtyard below: nothing more than a distant handkerchief of silvery green. It was little wonder the door was locked so firmly. No one would survive a fall, without a professor's wand to arrest their descent. He levelled his eyes at the horizon and fixed them there. Tiny snow crystals — reluctant to fall — blurred the distant hills: winter had arrived early.

Today was Slughorn's potions test and his reason for visiting the tower. Tom needed somewhere inspirational, to remind himself of what was at stake; something Hogwarts and the surrounding scenery, never failed to do. Today was an important day; probably the most important of his life so far.

Their first assessed assignment as Hogwarts pupils, had been set two months earlier: the potions practical. During the half-term break, local pupils were able to return home. Those that lived too far had activities and study periods to attend, including the Halloween social. Tom used the time to study, but was careful to take part in events too; he knew from his time at Wool's, that being on your own eventually created problems. Being seen to join in, was almost as good as actually joining in. Now lessons had resumed, everyone's attention refocussed on their assignment. Most of his classmates were afraid it would draw attention to particular weaknesses, since standards at Hogwarts were so high. During the early part of their education — at smaller, local schools — they may have excelled; here the competition was stiffer and no one wanted to be singled out for special attention.

Slughorn asked them to demonstrate a potion of choice: _providing it's simple_. Which would give the teaching staff an idea of their individual strengths. They could then introduce _streams_ according to ability and so on. What most students already knew, was that Slughorn loved to nurture promising talent. This wasn't encouraged, so much as tolerated by the headmaster and governors. Excelling was — after all — nothing to be ashamed of at Hogwarts. However, in Tom's case it presented a dilemma.

He could dazzle staff if he wished and become the most talked-about pupil in the history of Hogwarts. Tom had no doubts concerning his abilities and the potion he'd practised, although inspired by others, was his own, unique creation. It was unusually complex and that was the problem. He and it would attract the attention of everyone: pupils and staff. What he needed to weigh up, was whether this price was too high? Tom cared little for praise and fame, having experienced none so far in life and believed himself above such low tributes. No, the threat came from two other camps: jealous students and meddlesome teachers. Some pupils would dislike him for his abilities and some teachers would undoubtedly pay him close attention from this point. He had a lifetime of living in an institution to call upon, so was well aware of the consequences. Currently, Tom was anonymous and able to use magic freely. He enjoyed no attention whatsoever.

 _Present my complex potion and impress everyone, or select something simple and remain anonymous?_

He'd climbed the tower to decide, but already knew what to do when he awoke that morning; of course he'd present his potion. The one he'd worked solidly on for two months. It was worth the risk. Besides, there were several other advantages: Slughorn would take him under his wing, few would doubt that. Some pupils might show him more respect, smoothing his passage through school. Access to better books and materials was a long-term possibility. Also, if he was being honest with himself, he wanted to see their surprised faces.

Tom threaded through the door's keyhole and headed back down the stairs: taking several at a time. All doubt vanished as he crossed the Transfiguration Courtyard. Its pearly grass tainted by dark green footprints, as he hurried over to the Great Hall for a late breakfast.

* * *

It began at 10am and the practicals would run till 11.30am. The half hour up to noon, would include demonstrations from those lucky enough to be selected. Lessons were usually an hour, so two solid hours of potions was an ominous prospect. You were either unlucky enough to perform poorly and receive special attention, or worse, what if you did well? Then you'd present to the entire year, after ninety, soul-crushing minutes. Some reward!

The potions classroom was host to all first form pupils for the test. Some were housemates and familiar, but many were faces only seen at feasts, quidditch matches, or aboard the Hogwarts Express. If students hadn't woken feeling anxious, then an atmosphere of mild hysteria greeted them outside the potions classroom.

The chatter died away as Slughorn breezed up the corridor. Robes billowing behind him and utterly convinced that he had the best job in the world.

'Quiet please.'

He rapped his wand on the door to get everyones' attention, then gave the end a crisp flick. The door unlocked, swung open and he took his place at the front of the class. The room had an unusual, organic odour, like decomposing grass; combined with the worry of a practicals test, it produced nausea in the pit of your stomach. The three classes found their seats and remained strictly partisan, dividing themselves into their respective forms: this was no time to be exploring new friendships. Tom was less bothered whether his friends were nearby. He wanted easy access to the store cupboards and if possible, to be near the least distracting students. There was a suitable location at the back and Gary gave him a wave.

'Cut it out, Mr Box. We've more important things to worry about, than where your friend's sitting.'

Although Slughorn had his back turned, little got past him. He wrote on the board in copperplate text, with the tiniest piece of chalk imaginable; it was beautiful to look at, but impossible to read.

What he wrote was a summary of times: _Start 10.15, End 11.30 sharp!_ It was precise in a way the first form were unused to, but that was the point. Slughorn cut some slack to youngsters, but one day in the future, they would become adults, so drip feeding them responsibility was essential. As far as he was concerned, it was never too early to start planning the rest of your life.

Tom was among the most nervous, but no one would have guessed it. He unpacked his notes and arranged them on the bench in a cool and precise manner; there was much to gain from today's exercise, but more to lose if his plan came unstuck. Tom's mouth was tacky, but his will was fixed on the task in hand.

Slughorn smiled.

'You have five minutes to collect what you need from the store cupboards and I do mean five, Miss Rubinstein! We start at ten-fifteen precisely! I'm here should you need extra equipment, though I can't imagine why. Remember the watchword: simple. I want a simple potion. Done well.'

Tom bypassed the scrum forming around the cupboards. One of the house-elves, Ruby — usually cleaning the dormitories at this time — was on hand to dispense potion ingredients. Although Slughorn gave the impression that the entire burden of the task fell on him; it was Ruby who span left and right, as vials, jars and flasks, flew into the hands of eager students. Tom approached Slughorn, who was examining his piece of chalk with wonder.

'Sir, can I borrow a Falstaff tap, Reed condenser and copper alembic?'

Slughorn's eyebrows raised. Surely he had those items, but _puppy dog tails!_ It must be more than five years since he'd seen the alembic. _Which part of simple was unclear?_

Piling them into Tom's arms and smothering him in cobwebs and mummified spiders, Slughorn returned to the blackboard, 'That's time! You have one hour and one quarter precisely!' He whispered to Tom.

'Hurry up and get what you need lad, the house-elf's wanted back in Slytherin. It's a monumental tip down there.'

Most were too busy to notice the number of times Tom returned to the stores cupboard; Slughorn was about to say something, when it became clear Tom had finished collecting his ingredients. _The foolish boy's only wasted ten whole minutes!_

A film of sweat covered Tom's brow; the hardest part was over. On another day he might have failed to secure the right equipment, or stores may have run short, but not today. He'd practised the potion from scratch, twice; his fastest time was seventy minutes to completion and now he had sixty-five. It was still possible, but everything would need to be a stroke or two faster. Meanwhile, Slughorn scanned the room, patrolling, pointing at a burner overheating the mixture, or shaking his head at a potion spewing toxins. Errors of judgement were greeted with a tut or raised eyebrow.

Tom's speed of operation and confidence around the equipment, aroused Slughorn's interest. _What on Earth is he up to?_ Slughorn happily admitted that he hadn't the faintest. Tom's setup looked like he was reanimating a corpse. There was a scroll on his desk to work from and he unrolled sections as required.

Slughorn was thinking how he hadn't liked Tom at all; a cocky, arrogant young man, who hardly knew he was born! At least that was his initial assessment, based not on fact, but the gut-instinct teachers were blessed with. His gut had been wrong; the lad obviously knew a thing or two. Slughorn's professional side was certain the potion would amount to nothing of substance; however, Tom's intrepid conduct was nothing short of spectacular. _What if Riddle's creation actually does something useful?_ What if he was a bona fide genius and Slughorn was the necessary key to unlocking that potential.

Slughorn imagined himself with steepled hands, being interviewed by the Daily Prophet. 'Nurturing talent is an educator's bread and butter,' he adopted a serious, but sincere face. 'It's an unwritten rule of the profession. Mentoring fresh minds and guiding them along the path to excellence.' The smile returned and he waved one hand in a circular motion, indicating no further explanation was necessary. The same smile was plastered across his face when he slipped from the daydream; back to the lacklustre reality of a first-form, potions practical.

Slughorn felt a flush of blood in his cheeks. He was excited about the prospect of Tom's potion and the boy's potential could not be ignored. _Finally, a new project!_

* * *

'Ten more minutes!' Slughorn yelled, despite being in such a confined space.

He was nervous. Throughout the practical, he'd tried to share his attention equally among the group, but it was clear he only had eyes for Tom's experiment. In the first fifteen minutes Slughorn was confident of Tom's approach. He was heading on a familiar course, towards a form of ingested potion; obvious to those with potions know-how. Then he veered dramatically off course, refining some unguent, or perhaps an oil to be poured? Slughorn's smile was a marriage of surprise and repulsion, so he shook his head periodically to dismiss it, should anyone notice. He was looking forward to the end of the practical, more than the students taking part.

Slughorn continued to patrol the desks. Some had worryingly trivial set ups: a heat source; a flask; the odd rat tail; sparse ingredients and a bare-bones diagram. 'Can we all finish up now!'

 _That will amount to precisely nothing_ , Slughorn thought, appraising Don Stephens' pitiful effort. Tom sped up; he was close, but wanted no sympathy extensions.

For the final two minutes Slughorn stood at the front of the class; shifting his weight from side to side, like a man impatient for his tankard of butterbeer. Most had downed tools and were sneaking a peek at their classmates' work. Assessing whether they'd done enough to escape humiliation. Or not. As the second hand passed six on the clock, Tom opened the receiver tap at the base of his condenser and a thread of oily liquid filled the miniature pot. He laid the pot carefully on the bench, looked up and swept back the hair covering his face.

Slughorn was watching Tom from the corner of one eye. With relief he shouted.

'That's time! All over I'm afraid. Put your equipment down please. No exceptions, Benjamin Trubshawe.'

Slughorn noticed two other promising potions while he was making circuits of the room; Mouna Rooke had produced a nifty draught and Eve Wendell's was above average too. He called Eve to the front of the class for a demonstration; while the remaining students gathered around Slughorn's desk. Excited and holding the flask in both hands, she demonstrated how her potion could remove the colour from other liquids. Most of the classroom nodded approval, it was well executed, but you had to wonder what practical uses the potion might have.

'Yes, well done, er… Evelyn.' Slughorn tested a name he might never have cause to use again.

'It's just Eve.'

'Is it.' Slughorn was unable to keep the irritation from his voice.

'Return to your seat please, Miss Wendell. Miss Rooke! Come up and show us what you've concocted.'

Mouna carried several jars in her arms, with the lids firmly screwed shut. Shy and quietly spoken, she explained that each contained an unpleasant odour. Everyone moved in for a closer look. The first jar contained decomposing newts and as she unscrewed the lid a fraction, an unholy stench wafted into the crowd. It was heart-stoppingly foul, causing several spectators to back away. The next jar contained dragon urine, from an on-heat male and although it may not have physically happened, the front row's hair stood on end. The last jar held a vaporous, pygmy-bat gland. A native of the Belgian Congo and often used in local medicines, it was reputed to be the most, rancid-smelling odour in the potions catalogue. If the previous smell made your hair stand on end; this made it fall out. The row nearest the desk, turned pale and gagged. Language was simply not rich enough, to express its nose-related horror.

Mouna poured a small draught of her potion into the three jars and quickly replaced the lids. She shook each like a cocktail and allowed the mixture to settle.

'My potion will remove any odour from the liquid it's mixed with.'

She opened the jars in turn and passed them round; they had a vaguely floral smell and nothing more. In addition to being a potion that worked, this one also did something useful. The class clapped unprompted — except for Eve Wendell — who wondered what had happened to her applause.

'Yes, overall quite surprising, Miss Rooke, fifteen points to Hufflepuff. A competent imagination at work.' Mouna's Hufflepuff housemates gave her an honour guard of _well dones_ , when she returned the jars to her desk.

'Well, there's one more to see, but I think we may need to decamp to his desk. What do you say, Mr. Riddle?'

'That would be easiest, sir.'

The class gathered round Tom's desk in the corner; which took several minutes, as only two sides were available. There was much jostling for space and a nearby bench was pushed away to make room. Gary Box appeared at the front, probably from crawling between everyone's legs. Slughorn considered reprimanding him, but that only tended to prolong his performances.

'When you're ready, Tom.' It escaped no one's attention that Slughorn had absent-mindedly referred to a first form boy, by his first name. A common practice with girls, it was never extended to boys. Slughorn had a new favourite in his sights.

Everyone followed the imagined progress of ingredients through Tom's potion equipment. Heat was applied here, water boiled there, steam rose and the mixture condensed. It was skimmed at this point, boiled again, then filtered once more for good measure. His ingredients were exotic: alligator gizzard stones, troll ankle-skin (dried), dead heart of hemlock (an especially-lethal poison extract). Yes, this potion belonged in another league. Slughorn was enjoying the theatre of it all, now he was certain the potion wouldn't work; _t_ _his is not how things are done, it's that simple!_ He felt relief, sandwiched between layers of disappointment. Both of which faded over the next fifteen minutes, as he was forced to acknowledge a piece of work, unparalleled in all his years of teaching. _Remarkable,_ he repeated to himself; with a thousand-yard stare fixed on the twin peaks above Strathmore Glen.

* * *

'Off you go,' Slughorn prompted with an encouraging nod and the demonstration began. Tom's voice was confident and matter-of-fact as he described how Professor Slughorn had mentioned the _potion facultas_. He was unashamedly buttering up Slughorn, for providing him with inspiration during a classroom ramble. Slughorn's thumbs returned to his lapels and he rocked back and forth on his heels.

Tom continued.

'I knew a potion of this complexity would be too difficult to create in one experiment, so decided to build a first stage; a foundation I would be able to improve on, over many months. A potion in its own right, but also a cord. This, combined with many other potion cords, would produce _a rope_ such as the _potion facultas_. I found what I needed in _Sense and Desensitising the Spirit,_ by Judith Khan.

The book's name passed over the heads of his classmates, but Slughorn stiffened. He knew this book; it was considered dangerous and rightly so. _How has Riddle managed to get his hands on a copy?_ His initial analysis of the boy should be reassessed; there was a distinct possibility that the magic needed to pull off a project this ambitious, could be found within its pages. Slughorn selected his usual approach when dealing with problems like this and it was simple: feign ignorance. _Headmaster, I had no idea he was reading such books, let Freyja be my witness!_

Tom attached the loop at the end of his scroll, to a nail embedded in the stone wall and let go; the scroll bounced and rolled towards his feet, only halted by the tips of his shoes. It was crowded with diagrams and notes; some crossing out too, but even that was neat. A number of symbols, runes probably, gave the paragraphs a mathematical flavour. Revealing the scroll brought an audible gasp from the crowd; even if it was meaningless scribble, it would still have taken weeks to write. As for being a valid formula, planned and constructed to perform a task? That was proving difficult to imagine. Every fibre of Tom's being was opposed to showing off, but Gary demonstrated time and again, that first impressions and delivery counted. It was a necessary step and this impressive scroll would help cement the myth of his potion. In some accounts, it would probably stretch several times around Hogwarts.

Everyone's attention shifted back to the apparatus. Tom leaned forward and held up a pot containing the oily liquid, which had now thickened to a creamy emulsion. 'I've called it the _potion contrarium_ and may I have a volunteer?' A hedgehog of hands bristled, despite the potion containing highly-poisonous ingredients.

'Thank you everyone, but there's only one opinion that cannot be swayed. It would be possible for me to bribe a classmate to change their mind, but even I could never persuade Professor Slughorn.' Tom looked directly at Slughorn.

'Me? It looks fairly toxic, young man. Ha ha. Think again.' Slughorn was ruffled.

Tom had a toad standing by, in case Slughorn tried to wriggle out of his guinea-pig role. He rubbed some of the cream onto a flat part of the toad's head; it blinked several times, swivelled its eyes and struggled. The toad wanted to return to the classroom fountain, so Tom released it into the channel below, apparently unharmed.

The class looked expectantly at Slughorn.

'Well, perhaps. For academic purposes of course.'

Tom asked Slughorn to rub a little cream clockwise, into the centre of his forehead. It didn't matter which direction you rubbed, or whether it was your forehead; Tom was just using showmanship to build the tension.

Slughorn prepared to congratulate Tom on a solid effort, which sadly fell short during the final delivery.

Tom took a paper bag from his pocket and offered it to Slughorn. It contained liquorice allsorts, which Gary had lent him that morning.

'Allsort, Professor?' Slughorn flinched in disgust.

'Are you trying to make me vomit, Riddle? You know I can't stand the things!'

Despite being new, first formers were already well aware that Slughorn loved allsorts. During class, his hand frequently dipped into a side-pocket, which was then raised for a throat-clearing cough. The allsort slipped into his mouth and two minutes of slurred speech followed, as Slughorn chewed on one side, then the other.

Tom continued.

'How do you feel about potions, Professor Slughorn?'

'I'll tell you about potions: an indulgent, luxury subject! A colossal waste of time and galleons. You can't do anything with it! It's a sideshow, to ensure those simpletons with limited interests, are kept busy. Now, muggle studies, there's a subject to challenge the intellect. We'd live far happier lives if muggle studies was a required part of the curriculum. I'll be exchanging stern words with the headmaster about its status as an option; an eye-popping disgrace, headmaster. Eye-popping!'

Everyone knew Slughorn hated muggle studies with a passion and loved potions beyond sensible comprehension. Someone had opened up his mind and swapped the cables over. Everything he hated, he now loved and vice versa. Tom was right, it would work most effectively on someone who had strong opinions and opinions which were well known. Slughorn had apparently been cloned and replaced by an evil twin. It demonstrated to many, how much opinions shape who we are; this faux Slughorn was a complete stranger.

Tom knew he only had five minutes, since the active ingredients were short lived when exposed to air. A longer-lasting potion was possible, but there was little need for it in a classroom demonstration. Plus, it could descend into anarchy; with Slughorn encouraging pupils to smash up their stools for firewood.

'Professor Slughorn, I understand the Minister of Magic plans to visit Hogwarts next term?' Tom cast his rod.

'That… Person! (Slughorn very nearly swore.) It's possible he was at Hogwarts once, I can't recall. Such a tedious man and dreadful company too. The problem stems from the fact that he's nothing special; a supremely, ordinary man. Also, why come here? What's he hoping to see? A pile of old rocks and a run-down castle. _I know_ , they must have thought: give it a lick of paint, hire a bunch of work-shy clowns and let's call it a school!'

There was a unanimous gasp; this was heresy coming from Slughorn. He adored Hogwarts, teaching was his passion and a Minister of Magic painting took pride of place in his house chambers. If any doubters remained about the effectiveness of Tom's potion, they were silenced. Slughorn was someone else. So completely, it was painful to hear the conviction in his voice.

Slughorn scratched the side of his head, indicating that the potion was beginning to wear off. The man was smiling, but confused; like someone waking from a profound dream, which they'd already forgotten. Tom gave it a further minute, then offered him a liquorice allsort.

Slughorn dug around and selected two, putting one in his mouth and slipping the other in his pocket for later. The old Slughorn was back.

It started as a lone clap, that built in ripples to foot-stamping applause. Students looked from neighbour to neighbour, shaking their heads in disbelief. Using Slughorn as a guinea pig was a masterstroke, since he delivered the ultimate in convincing performances.

Slughorn remembered all of it. The part that impressed him most was that he truly believed what he'd said; for those five minutes he hated Hogwarts, teaching and the Minister of Magic. Muggle studies had enchanted him, the very idea of which, was nauseating.

Tom had produced the most impressive potion Slughorn had witnessed at Hogwarts, in eight years of teaching. The most impressive by some margin. _Plus, he's a first former!_ Slughorn cleared his throat.

'Well, we've all witnessed something extraordinary today. Our congratulations go to Tom.' Slughorn, although disturbed by his loss of control, was also wired in a different way to most teachers. Excitement was bubbling in his chest; Tom Riddle was the genuine article. A dyed-in-the-wool genius, currently lacking a mentor. A role that he — Horace Slughorn — was willing to assume; his long-held dream, made flesh.

'Two-hundred points to Slytherin House for vision, insight and outstanding conduct. Tom Riddle had an idea, which he developed, then executed under pressure. He sets us all an example today; one which we would do well to remember.'

The first form pupils, punched through the potions classroom door for lunch and flowed along the corridor, breaking into tributaries. Within fifteen minutes the news had travelled across the school, top to bottom and side to side. Tom had controlled Professor Slughorn during a test and for it, received the highest points award in living memory. Tom Riddle was no longer some invisible new student roaming the corridors of Hogwarts. He was a genuine celebrity. The kind of student-stroke-project, Slughorn had always yearned for.

* * *

The rest of Tom's day was unusual; people, previously unaware that he existed, nodded in his direction. Pupils several years above him, intercepted his path and asked about the potions practical. A girl from the year above, Lesley Kydd, with her auburn curls and wafting lashes, stared at him during lunch. When he looked over and their eyes met, she increased the intensity of her gaze, willing him to join her. He didn't of course, because everyone was watching him now, though rather less energetically than Lesley Kydd. Gary — sitting opposite — was in his element. The interest in Tom was rubbing off on him and he naturally assumed the role of personal manager. Keeping admirers and stalkers at bay, Gary was convinced that Tom's mystery should be maintained at all costs.

'Tom, I expected it to be good, but... The most exciting event in Hogwarts since that baby owl _were_ found in Dippet's beard?'

'I wasn't expecting all this.' Tom nodded at the chatter and swivelling heads across the Great Hall; even staff were whispering about him and sneaking the odd, sidelong glance. However, Tom wasn't as uncomfortable as some imagined. He'd patiently waited during his years at the orphanage, surviving day-to-day; the punishments, the bullies, always with his mind fixed on the future. Tom had been invisible to the public his whole life and now he was front-page news. It wasn't so tough to endure.

That evening in the Slytherin Common Room, Tom was reading before bed; usually, there would be older students in the common room at 9pm, but tonight it was deserted. He pulled an armchair close to the fire and gazed into the flames; his face tightening from the warmth. Orange light reflected in his pupils, while logs popped in the grate. Tom was thinking about nothing at all, when he sensed company. Turning round, he saw the top half of Slughorn peering from the doorway.

'There you are, Tom!' Slughorn was unnaturally coy. Further mention of _Rittles_ or _Ripples,_ now seemed unlikely; from this day forward, he would just be _Tom_.

'I was off to bed, Professor, but the fire was...' He left the sentence unfinished.

Slughorn's hands shot up, as if stung.

'No, no, no, Tom. Not a problem... At all! You go to bed when you're ready. After a hard day's work, everyone deserves to put their feet up for a few minutes. And some more than others.' Slughorn grinned, then silence followed.

An uncomfortable period of time passed, before Slughorn pretended to have an idea.

'A spot may have opened up in my Michaelmas term supper party, three weeks tomorrow. I think it would be most fitting if you were there. What say you, Tom? Hmm?'

Slughorn wished to convey ease, but instead radiated desperation; he knew the party would be a disaster if man of the moment — Tom Riddle — was absent. Tom was well aware of _The Slug Club_ and familiar with Slughorn's elitist views. Of course he planned to accept, but with carefully-staged disinterest.

'Well... If you think it's a good idea, Professor.'

Slughorn's face slackened with relief, then he cracked his palms together: making Tom jump.

'That's wonderful news! You run along to bed when the mood strikes and if anyone asks, you have my full permission. Sleep well.' He slid behind the door, resisting the temptation to break into song.

Tom was almost as pleased as Slughorn. As far as he understood it, The Slug Club was for older students who'd already proved their worth, so an invite in the first form was unusual. He might not have Slughorn eating out of his hand just yet, but he was certainly smacking his lips in expectation.

The encounter capped a remarkable day. He knew the potion was promising when he awoke that morning, but events had taken such a positive turn. The fire's warmth extended right down to the pit of his stomach. He'd go to bed when he felt like it! What was the point in privilege if you didn't take advantage of it? Tom settled back, stared blankly into the flames and let his thoughts drift away.


	5. V: Slug Club, Tina & the Astronomy Tower

**V - Slug Club, Tina and the Astronomy Tower**

The afternoon of Saturday the 26th of November, brought an astonishing display of nature at its most dramatic. Imperious, charcoal clouds scraped along the highland peaks, as they hurried overhead. Most students now wore gloves or scarves to classes and the first five minutes were spent getting the circulation going. Today's quidditch match was called off, because the Reykjavik Ravens were a no-show. Food poisoning had somehow infected every member of their team, according to a message received by Headmaster Dippet. The Raven's absence, as everyone knew, was due to their miserable performance this season.

So the school had a Saturday afternoon with nothing to focus on. Most were wandering the corridors in search of entertainment, or practising spells in remote classrooms. Tom and Gary decided on a circuit of the school, to blow away the cobwebs: starting from the Great Hall, they would pass Merlin's Gate, then return through the Clock Courtyard. When they rounded the most easterly point and faced the wind for the first time, both had to lean forward to make any progress. Their twenty-minute circuit, turned into an hour of staggering and shouted conversation.

The plan was to practice spells afterwards, but the walk had been exhausting, so they found comfy chairs instead. Gary produced a loaf of bread from somewhere and he and Tom attached slices to a pair of brass prongs. The bread was toasted, along with their numb toes, in front of the common room fire.

'You up for tonight?' Gary squashed half a slice into his mouth.

'Not really.' Tom's ambition had been stoked the previous evening, just before bed. However, in the early morning light, he had serious doubts whether going was the best course of action. The Slug Club was full of sixth formers. They weren't people you spoke to; mainly because they didn't want to speak to you.

Several nights earlier, Tom dreamed that he'd walked into the supper party and everyone had stopped talking. Slughorn encouraged him to introduce himself, but his voice had been squeaky and ridiculous. The older students then laughed without sparing his feelings; this youngster was no genius, just a comic sideshow for their entertainment. When he awoke, Tom realised that the event which had been safely relegated to the future for weeks, was now only days away.

'You're lucky,' Gary said, 'most would give anything to experience all that hoopla.' He wagged a corner of toast at Tom. 'You're an exceptionally-lucky young man.'

'Go in my place then,' Tom flipped his toast round.

'Don't tempt me, _Thomas_ ,' Gary opened his mouth and compressed the remaining toast into it. 'Polyjuice potion is right up your street, I shouldn't wonder,' but all Tom heard was a churning cement mixer.

Seven-fifteen that evening, Tom checked his reflection for the tenth time. He was wearing his best tweed suit — his only tweed suit — which felt inappropriate for evening wear; Gary offered to lend him another, but it was far too loud. The rest of the school would be watching a play about telekinetic spiders, written and staged by the fifth form.

'Oh, he's so dashing!' Gary pushed Tom towards the exit. 'Now knock 'em dead, Tiger.'

Tom crossed the Cobblestone Courtyard to the Grand Staircase, then down to the Great Hall. Most students were already there: waiting patiently to see the play and several turned as Tom approached the Upper Great Hall Tower, fiddling with his top button. This was nothing new: whispering and pointing followed him everywhere these days. He straightened his tie self-consciously, puffed his cheeks several times and opened the tower door. Behind it was a bookcase, stretching from floor to ceiling. He reached for the middle shelf and pushed the third book from the left; then the bookcase rumbled to his right, receding into the wall. A spiral staircase was revealed and Tom started his climb. There was a hessian-rope handrail to hold, whose smell dominated the stairwell. At every rotation, he passed a thin window on both the north and south sides, stretching two floors apiece.

At the top was another door, where he hesitated and mentally prepared himself. Tom adjusted his tie again, shut his eyes, then knocked four times.

'Enter!' Slughorn yelled cheerfully and Tom opened the door into a vast room. What a room! One of Hogwarts' most elegant, though rarely used these days. A cavernous glass dome with iron latticework, immediately grabbed the visitor's attention. Dozens of tropical plants, including many indoor trees, probed upwards into the glass cupola. Floating candles descended in tiered clusters, from the dome down to floor level. An immense stone fireplace — taller than a person — with a roughly-hewn mantel, dominated the room to Tom's left: a necessary source of heat for the tropical plants in the arboretum. Standing casually beside the fireplace and in his element, was Slughorn, nursing a glass of mead. Four or five, loose knots of students mingled nearby, grinning at their good fortune; so far, this closely resembled his anxiety dream.

Slughorn, sensing Tom's discomfort, broke away and swept him forward with a protective arm across one shoulder. 'Oh-ho, everyone. This is Tom Riddle. Dazzled us all with his potions practical; more than earning his invite. Hmm? Now we can all put a face to the name.'

Slughorn walked Tom around the reception, introducing other attendees, who were all sipping mead from glasses the size of an egg cup. Tom was handed a miniature butterbeer. Most nodded vaguely, unwilling to admit they'd heard of a first former. Those present at The Slug Club, to all intents and purposes, ran the school: quidditch captain; head boy; head girl; famous parent; rich family; brilliant student; well-connected exchange student and so on. They represented Hogwarts' cream and as a set, would greatly enhance any collection.

Although taller than the others, one of the boys also appeared to be younger. He was introduced as William Howard; substantially taller than Tom, he also had twice the bulk. Tom was already aware of William, since he was a first team quidditch blocker, despite being in the fourth form. He was known as _Wild Bill_ to other pupils and someone you stayed the right side of. Slughorn thought that since neither were in the sixth form, they should keep each other company, but Tom immediately saw the flaw in his simple logic.

Slughorn couldn't resist sharing, that William Howard's family were bordering on magical royalty; not perhaps as lavish in terms of galleon wealth these days, but they still enjoyed significant influence at the Ministry. Historically, the Howards provided early funding for Hogwarts and a member of their family had sat on the governing board ever since. Slughorn's eyes were wild.

Tom and Bill shook hands, then Slughorn left them to it; he had other jewels to polish and admire. Fifteen minutes of networking remained before dinner and there were still enquiries to be made. Tom gazed at the oak table between the trees, with its twin ranks of dining chairs facing one another. He should say something to Bill, otherwise his inexperience at mingling might become obvious.

'Been to one of these before?' Tom asked, taking a sip of butterbeer.

Bill had a way of looking down his nose at you, whether intentionally or not. He had brown hair, slicked at the sides, but less formal up front, thick, arched eyebrows and sleepy eyes. He looked like the kind of brute you'd find holding junior pupils up by their ankles, but his voice and manner were refined.

'Several,' Bill replied. Cutting the conversation dead and establishing this was nothing new to him. Then he changed his approach and opened up.

'You're a potions man, Slughorn says?'

'Not really,' Tom took another sip, 'I thought if I did well in potions, I'd have an easier time with Slughorn.' Tom smoothed his way through Wool's with similar honesty and Bill warmed to the explanation.

'Sensible. With all this talent on display, how are we supposed to make any kind of impression?' He was gently mocking the other students and keeping Tom onside.

They discussed the cancelled quidditch match, before Slughorn interrupted them.

'Right, enough of this flimflam you Slytherin men! Time to eat and don't tell me you're not hungry.' He clapped his hands, making those with their backs turned, jump. When they seated themselves along the table, there appeared to be an unwritten pecking order, so Tom and Bill hung back. They were expected to take the two end positions, with Slughorn at the head and his particular favourites close by. The other head of the table, facing away from the entrance, was always left vacant, so if the headmaster dropped by, he could join them for dessert or coffee. That had never happened in eight years and probably never would, but Slughorn's hope sprang eternal.

As the first course materialised, Tom noticed the parade of cutlery on either side of his plate. Bill nudged him.

'You work from the outside, in. Those two forks are for the fish and that contraption on the end is for snails.' It looked like a surgical instrument for extracting eyeballs.

The food was superb, the fish course especially: lemon sole meunière. Tom had eaten fish and chips from _the chippie_ in Deptford, on two occasions; which was the tastiest meal he'd had up to that point. However, the sole was nothing short of spectacular and edged fish and chips off the top spot.

He and Bill were physically on the fringes and socially too; the conversation always petered out before reaching them. Tom discovered that Bill had already picked his final options for O.W.L.s, but _things don't get serious_ till the fifth form, next year. Then it was solid work till the end of sixth form.

'Enjoy school while you still can,' was his advice.

Bill was visiting Ankara at Christmas, to attend an international symposium on Turkish charms.

'Much misunderstood throughout the magical world, with some top-notch speakers,' he repeated in a mechanical imitation of his father. Bill pretended to nod off. Tom suppressed a snigger, he was all right Bill Howard and not so threatening as he looked. When Bill laughed, his sleepy eyelids met, which was infectious. Their amusement caught _Sluggy's_ attention.

'A good joke, Bill? Do share.' Slughorn was always terrified of missing out.

Bill recovered and waved the request away. 'Nothing Professor, just ah… Trifling matter.' Tom smiled into the luscious raspberry trifle they were enjoying.

The pun went over Slughorn's head, so he returned to his nearest and dearest. The coffee appeared before them, in thimble-sized demitasses and Tom settled back in his chair to look up. The branches spread to the far reaches of the circular dome, with stars dotted between on this moon-free night. He'd been dreading Slughorn's supper, but it was enjoyable and the food had been sensational. Usually food held no interest for him: hard brown bread, waxy cheese, factory processed meats and rotting fruit. He was beginning to see what all the fuss was about.

Not familiar with etiquette, dinner was over with little warning and the guests began to leave. Tom and Bill joined Slughorn, who was standing by the door, personally seeing everyone off.

'Thanks for coming Bill, a pleasure as always.'

'Tom! Mind giving me a hand for a minute?' Slughorn put his arm on Tom's shoulder again. It didn't feel like a request.

Bill turned briefly.

'See you around, Riddle.' His hands deep in his pockets, he took the stairs two at a time.

When they were alone, Slughorn directed all his attention at Tom, in case he felt neglected; like some fickle partner on a first date. Tom hadn't cared less, in fact he was relieved at not being involved in Slughorn's conversations. He'd enjoyed himself, instead of fumbling through the evening. Slughorn asked Tom to carry some scrolls: memoirs from former dinners and light suppers he'd thrown over the years. He always kept them on hand, to prevent the conversation drying up. Luckily tonight, the scrolls had remained untouched on a stool.

Tom followed Slughorn back to Slytherin House; he talked the whole way, but Tom was barely listening. He was reviewing how far he'd come in a single term. In the first few weeks he'd been invisible and now the head of house was fawning over him. In his past life, magic didn't exist; it was a parlour trick you saw in the West End: visiting the Palladium or Hippodrome. It was make-believe and usually looked down upon. These muggles — as magical families referred to their non-magical peers — would have died and gone to heaven; if only they'd known that right under their noses, was a world overflowing with magic. Tom was good at it too; a fact he should try to remember more often. One of the best and quite possibly _the_ best, Hogwarts had seen in centuries.

'So tomorrow's fine with you?' Slughorn was droning on, but Tom had long since drifted away. He considered his response carefully.

'What time and where, Professor?'

'Eleven o'clock on the quidditch pitch!' Slughorn's expression was exasperated as he repeated the bullet points.

'Greetje de Vries from the Utrecht Academy of the Ancient Arts — a former Hogwarts pupil — wants to harden up her dragon orphan, before releasing it into the wild. As I explained at length, not several minutes ago. We have a few spots in the Forbidden Forest suitable for a dragon whelp and I need one or two select students present, glad-handing. You know, part of the welcoming committee? Mum's the word though Tom, we have to keep this sort of thing under wraps. There's a buffet in the Great Hall after…'

'Of course I'll be there and goodnight sir.' After eleven years at Wool's without a decent meal, he was about to enjoy his third in a few months. Dragons were strictly fifth formers and above, even to view from a distance; Tom had seen pictures and illustrations, but now he was going to experience one in the flesh.

* * *

Gary was peeved to be missing out, but only briefly.

'Maybe I could come along for moral support. You know, hang about in the background?'

Tom didn't see why not, so at quarter to eleven on a dazzling, but bitterly-cold morning, they set off for the school quidditch pitch. Low sun picked its way through the evergreen trees, projecting tall shadows across Hogwarts. Some distance from the stadium they encountered a waist-high rope, cordoning off the entrance; occasional snorts and puffs of smoke appeared above the seating area, before they dissolved into the chilly air. As they got closer, there were noises preceding the smoke. Violent, strangulated roars.

Several prefects were standing behind the rope and Slughorn was chatting to one. His face brightened when he saw Tom.

'Glad you could make it, Tom. And... I see you've brought your friend.'

'I'll not get in the way, Professor, promise.' Gary rarely looked so eager to please.

'All right, all right. Just keep back and I'm sure we'll get along fine.'

They passed below the canvas surround. Usually only visible during matches, today it was needed to hide the contents of the stadium.

Slughorn had kept a tight lid on the event and no rumours were circulating around the breakfast tables. Even Gary resisted the temptation to mention where they were going. He would be part of an exclusive band of witnesses and the privilege had excited him into silence.

Emerging the other side of the canvas, they were met by a hive of activity. A Hebridean Black was bound to two stone blocks, using chains as thick as a wizard's thigh; the beast was around twenty feet in length, but still adolescent and only able to fly short distances. The plan was for it to acclimatise in the Forbidden Forest, which was similar to the breed's natural habitat in Lewis. Then the dragon would be passed on to the McFusty Clan.

The handler — a giant — towered over the dragon, but handled it with care: soothing and stroking. Tom had never seen a giant either, then he smelled it moments later. Concealing your involuntary retching was advisable, since bringing up personal hygiene with a giant was likely to cause offence. They lived in caves and occasionally if they fell into a river, well... That took care of any bathing needs. Someone foolish enough to hurt a giant's feelings, shouldn't be too surprised if their head and shoulders swiftly parted company.

The dragon — Tina — was fitted with a temporary muzzle, to prevent her spewing fire over the assembled guests. The iron muzzle glowed orange and white, where fumes escaped through the sides of her mouth. This was normal behaviour rather than distress and although the dragon was keen to move things along, the Scottish Highlands felt like home. The jet scales on her head and haunches, gleamed in the morning sun and when she breathed out, it sounded like giant bellows, huffing over hot coal. The paperwork had been signed and Greetje de Vries was making her excuses to leave, but Slughorn still waned to show Tom off.

'Madame de Vries, I'd like to present one of our star pupils. Mr Tom Riddle.'

Greetje was a tall witch, over six feet and stick thin. She glanced her palm at Tom's outstretched hand, managing only a shrug of a smile, before there was a blood-curdling shriek. The dragon had snapped the chain attached to her right ankle; Biggs the giant, was trying to grasp the dragon's leg and prevent Tina from sweeping her powerful tail back and forth. An unrestricted tail, would be quite capable of swatting the assembled dignitaries across the pitch and into the stands. Tom saw Greetje's face hang, then fall.

Tina ripped herself free of Biggs' grip, pulling the giant forward onto his knees, then she delivered a savage blow to the side of his head. Her tail was heavily armoured and Biggs moaned before rolling over: not fully unconscious, but groggy and out of action. Tina wrenched the other anchor chain with all her might and jets of blue flame escaped from the dragon's closed teeth. Greetje shrieked, 'Professor Slughorn, for the love of Woden, do something!'

Slughorn blanched at the gravity of their situation, but failed to do anything useful; this was all his idea and now it was about to self-destruct. He whispered to himself, desperate for any kind of plan, then his mind screamed in alarm. Tom Riddle had put himself within striking distance of the dragon.

Tina reared onto her back legs, sinking several inches into the hard pitch; then she steadied herself and prepared to lunge at Tom. The plan was to knock him down with her anvil-shaped head and follow up with a savage mauling. That never happened. The beast settled herself and shuffled forwards, panting and snatching at Tom's scent: part placid, part curious. With each snort her temper faded a little further. Biggs recovered and placed an arm around Tina's neck, but she was already calm.

Tom stood with his hand raised, understanding the dragon's behaviour and consoling her, but not by any visible means.

Slughorn's expression was transfixed and unable to process what he'd just witnessed.

The Utrecht Academy party left shortly afterwards, offering only a curt _au revoir_ ; the atmosphere became subdued and everyone remaining was now keen to get away. Disaster had been avoided, but replaced by a nagging discomfort. The prefects were sent back to school and Biggs hauled, then guided the dragon into the Forbidden Forest. Slughorn pulled out his wand and circled it around himself, while Tom and Gary remained where they were; the stadium stands became a skeleton of bare wood once again. Aside from the odd patch of singed grass, it was impossible to tell what had happened over the previous hour.

Gary, Tom and Slughorn walked back to school in silence; Tom was hardly aware he'd gone too far and possibly alienated his closest allies. Gary was impressed, but concerned the incident might distance Tom from the other students and by association, himself too. He was already planning to deny the whole thing. For Slughorn, a persistent doubt lurking in the corner of his mind, was now heading for the centre. Tom was far from an average pupil, not even just a bright pupil; he was something else. Someone supernaturally equipped with the potential to both heal and harm. Imagine, Slughorn considered, if someone strayed the wrong side of this young man? Too disturbing to think about, so he would simply place his thoughts elsewhere; it may take weeks, or months, but he was certain to forget about the incident over time.

* * *

The final few days of term arrived in a whirl. Any first former, given the chance to jump forward to the Christmas holidays on the first night, would have taken it. Somewhere along the way, they'd changed; they were still new of course, finding their feet and making mistakes, but fitting in too. Being less conspicuous to older pupils on a daily basis and so earning their place among them. To the surprise of many, the last few days came with a hint of melancholy, especially for Tom. Hogwarts was a vast improvement on his life at Wool's.

Lessons finished early and the afternoon was free, not even a study period, but genuinely free. Tom and Gary sat in the library, with lunch only minutes away; unless he checked regularly, Tom still thought the library might close in his absence. He and Gary were chatting, which was not strictly allowed, but tolerated if you kept the volume low. The library team appreciated pupils like Tom and his obvious dedication to the place they loved best. He planned to spend much of his time here, so was always courteous to staff; as a consequence, they let him go about his business with the minimum of interference.

'After lunch there's this _wandcraft display_ on the broomstick practice lawns. You up for it?' Gary waited for a response.

'Could be.'

'Good, 'cause we're going. This third-former — Bramall — says it's a right laugh. Top spells and stuff you don't often see. Now, let's get some lunch down us! I'm gnawing on my fingers over here _._ '

They packed up and followed the aroma of toad in the hole with onion gravy.

Two hours later and wrapped in coats, Tom and Gary joined most of Hogwarts on the broomstick practice lawns. It was face-numbingly cold, with silver wraiths of cloud from horizon to horizon. Sunshine appeared from time to time: blinding the spectators and highlighting their frosted breath.

Two members of Hogwarts' teaching staff, stood in front of the assembled crowd. Professor Xan Jiao-long who taught dragon science and Professor Alexander Glubb, head of the spells and charms department.

It was a light-hearted activity, where one professor would try to lay a series of obstacles in the path of another: who in turn, attempted to travel between two markers in the fastest possible time. Glubb simply flew by broomstick over the course during his first attempt and Headmaster Dippet led the booing. Many new students were wrong-footed at first. Dippet booing? However, Hogwarts tradition was respected by all teaching staff, so the pupils relaxed and joined in too. The first leg of the match was declared void and they were both required to start again. New rules were announced to the crowd: _no apparating, flying or otherwise avoiding the obstacles was permitted_. Apparently this cheating occurred every year. Professor Scarlett taught herbology and older students tended to use her first name — Stella — when talking among themselves. One of the youngest teachers, she was brilliant and beautiful. With a focussed but fun attitude, it was not unusual for her to conduct a tour of the grounds, with everyone singing the names of plants (she was also head of the school choir). Loved — to an unhealthy degree in some cases — and well respected, she was an ideal candidate to judge the contest.

Xan set a fast time of forty-seven seconds on the precision sand timer, so his opponent had it all to do. Professor Scarlett blew her whistle and Glubb lumbered heavily forward, before his legs tripled in length. Accelerating rapidly, he ran into a low bridge which Xan summoned with a flick of his wand; Glubb fell backwards heavily and shrunk to less than six inches in height, running below the stone arch with ease. Headmaster Dippet, joining in on the act, added some tweeting birdsong and stars above the dazed professor's head. Although Glubb could now run under the obstacle, being the size of a newborn kitten was not the wisest strategy; he covered very little ground and time was disappearing fast. Transfiguring into a cheetah below the bridge arch, then lengthening his stride, he burst onto the lawn and loped towards the finish line. A haunch of raw meat appeared to Glubb's right and unable to control himself, he veered off course and settled down to a second lunch. Professor Xan's quick thinking had won the contest and just as importantly, won over the crowd. Cheering and chanting continued, as the headmaster led everyone inside to warm up.

At 7.15pm in Slytherin's junior dorm, most boys were still running a comb through their hair, or attending to some last-minute packing. Tom, with little to pack and his hair already combed, was half-listening to Gary. He was describing one of the fourth-form girls in Hufflepuff: Mildred Warren. Gary had taken to standing near the entrance of the Great Hall and accidentally bumping into her before meals. Tom and everybody else knew she wasn't interested, but rejection seemed to bounce off Gary. One day, the planets would align and Mildred would see him for who he was: nothing less than an ardent admirer of her classical beauty. Everyone knew that day would never come, but Gary was blind to the fact — so he continued teasing his hair with a pair of combs.

The Great Hall was decked in the four sets of house colours and snow fell from the ceiling; it was only for atmospheric purposes, so never actually reached the ground. They sang the school song, several teachers commended good work and then there were notices for pre-season quidditch. Mock-O.W.L.s and mock-N.E.W.T.s were also scheduled for next term, so any pupils wishing to return early were invited to do so. All the better to cram in some extra revision. Then finally, the feast could begin.

Turkey; goose; chicken; glazed ham; spiced beef; trout; salmon; sausages; stuffing; pigs in blankets; bread sauce and gravy. Every kind of vegetable, from roast potatoes and parsnips, to medleys of Brussels sprouts; carrots; peas; swede and turnip. (If you didn't want Brussels sprouts, you didn't have to have them.) There were whole roasted fishes, spicy stews and smoked meats, for pupils from overseas. However, it was the desserts which drew the sharpest intake of breath. Traditional Christmas pudding: aflame in Armagnac; Christmas cake; chocolate log; stollen; Sachertorte; mince pies; gateaux; fruit salads with bananas and grapes, some with mango and guava. Trifle; gingerbreads; pavlova; toasted panettone; Christmas cookies and festive doughnuts. Also, beside each place setting were crackers, which boomed when pulled; deafening the older members of staff.

The kitchen team had outdone themselves, so Dippet insisted they come up and take a bow. Eight, lost-looking house-elves joined him on stage. The entire school applauded and stamped their feet; how had they got hold of the ingredients and made sure that each student had experienced a piece of home? Their spokes-elf thanked everyone and assured them that they were touched by the school's appreciation. However, there was an almighty pile of washing-up to look forward to, so, if they might be excused? Dippet clapped them off.

'We could all learn a thing or two about hard work, from our team of house-elves.'

After lights-out, Tom lay in bed and tried to forget that he was due home tomorrow.

'You still awake, mate?' It was Gary.

Tom considered not responding. _Just pretend to be asleep_ , but tomorrow night he'd be back at Wool's. Which was such a bleak prospect.

'No, I'm not.'

'Fancy a wander?'

'Don't suppose I can talk you out of it?'

'Probably not.'

'Where are you planning to go?' A voice came from the other side of the dorm. Leonard Goodwin, who lived in Aberdeen.

'Nowhere much,' Gary lied.

'Aww, come on boys!' Another voice from nearby. The unmistakable French accent of Lionel Beaumont, on exchange from the Toulouse Academy of Arithmancy. A third, Milton Whitby from Exeter, chimed in.

'Don't forget your old dorm mates.'

Fifteen minutes later, they were below the staircase leading to Dippet's study and lurking in the shadows. It was silent, except for creaking wooden panels and something flapping in the breeze outside. The school fires had been extinguished and a smell of wood smoke lingered in the corridors.

They'd dressed appropriately, in dark clothing and jumpers; necessary, now the castle's heating had been shut down. After picking where to go, they were still debating the best route. The Astronomy Tower was their destination of choice; difficult to get to, the highest point in the castle, out of bounds and the kind of location Hogwarts Caretaker — Hubert Feather — might patrol. Tom was familiar with how to get there, as he'd been studying castle blueprints since arriving at Hogwarts. His plan to extract the absolute maximum from school, meant knowing what was available and where to find it. Now there was some staircase climbing to tackle. Despite whispering, anyone several corridors away would have heard Gary, so Tom withdrew his wand.

'You've brought your wand?' Gary was disappointed. 'I'd not thought to bring mine.'

'We need to get into the tower. You'll find they don't leave many doors open at night.'

Gary winked. 'Good job one of us is thinking.'

Tom raised a finger to his lips. 'Silentium.'

It was a new spell on Gary. ' _What's_ that do?'

'There's a bubble of silence surrounding us now. Stick to the shadows and we'll be fine.'

'You know, that's why I love this lad,' Gary slapped Tom's shoulder. 'Nothing escapes him.'

The group crossed the Fountain Courtyard, rather than risk the inside corridors; corridors which contained staff quarters, several of which had light seeping under the door. Apparently, they weren't the only people still awake in the castle. The courtyard was sheltered from any wind, but the stone they pressed against was icy. Gary's heart was beating so rapidly, it echoed in his throat.

Tom pointed up and the others followed his finger; tipping their heads back further and further. Finally they could see their goal. So high, Leonard had a momentary spell of giddiness. There was no turning back now. Like mountaineers with the peak in sight, they opened the door, edged under the windows facing the courtyard and lingered below the tower's first flight of stairs.

Tom's wand illuminated a nearby painting, which showed a medieval town's marketplace. A knight and his horse were asleep, as were all the other characters. The gentle flapping of the horse's lips set Gary off. His suppressed laugh spread to Lionel (who pronounced his name _Lee-uh-nel)_ and now he was bent at the waist, silently shaking with laughter. 'Careful. Don't wake up my _'orse. 'E_ 's a very light sleeper, you know?'

The more they tried to hold themselves together, the funnier it became. Gary's nose began to squeak like a rusty wheel, as he fought to regain control and many minutes passed before they were able to move on.

The staircase followed the inner wall of the tower, with a landing on one side of each storey. The flights between landings were exhausting to look at, containing forty stairs on each of the three curved sides and now after twenty minutes of vigorous climbing, they were approaching the top. The stone was noticeably colder up here and looking over the balustrade, there was nothing but infinite darkness below. Something about the way sound echoed, told them how high they were.

Tom counted the doors on the top landing, then checked outside through a stained-glass window. The correct door should open onto a spiral staircase, which led to the astronomy classroom above. Tom pointed his wand at the door.

'Gelata!'

Nothing happened and Gary screwed his eyes shut in disappointment; he was now dealing with the possibility of returning to their dorm, defeated. Tom stowed his wand, walked purposefully towards the door and pushed aside the planking. It flopped back into place once he passed through. The others followed, one by one. The planks were wet and oozed in an unpleasant way, but it was effective and the lock remained untouched. The staircase had no handrail or breaks and was a further five minute climb; sapping them of any remaining energy. At the top was another door: closed, but unlocked. Tom twisted the ring handle and a blast of night wind blew back their hair.

Most of the top floor was walled and covered, but the forward section had a semi-circular balcony exposed to the elements. They naturally gravitated towards the view, but cautiously; since there was only a waist-high parapet protecting them from the drop below. A strong westerly flapped their hair and clothes, while they clung to the stone coping. Peering over the edge, clouds broke above and revealed a moon, two-thirds full; the ghostly loch shimmered, the air tasted of rain and pale moonlight picked out the distant ridges. It was a view they would never forget. The majesty of the landscape and permanence of the castle, made them feel invincible.

By now the wind was bone-chilling and it didn't take long before they took shelter. The enclosed section contained a brass telescope the height of a double-decker bus; it was mounted on a pillar and claw, with adjustment cogs the size of bicycle wheels. Alongside were a dozen or so smaller telescopes, pointed upwards for group study. In the centre was a huge armillary sphere, also brass, showing heavenly bodies and their position in the night sky. Milton Whitby found a pulley and part of the roof above the large telescope, folded back. Through trial and error, teamwork and very loud whispering they pointed the huge telescope towards the stars.

'At the Moon, at the Moon!' Lionel urged.

Each took their turn to look. They could see craters, with coronas of light bouncing from their rims and absolute shadow inside. The Moon — always hidden in plain sight — was a spectacle many forgot to notice.

Gary unpacked a handkerchief, containing food he'd stashed from the feast, so they enjoyed a midnight buffet while studying the lunar surface.

'We should go,' Tom suggested after thirty minutes had passed.

It was nearly two in the morning. If they set off now, there were still five hours of sleep to be had before breakfast. They resealed the roof and ensured everything was exactly how they'd found it. Tom double-checked, shifting items an inch or two, until they met his rigorous standards; then after taking a last look around, they closed the door and headed back to Slytherin.

At the base of the tower they paused to discuss their route. Earlier the castle had merely been chilly, but now it was Arctic and the prospect of crossing the courtyard appealed to no one. They inched along the inside corridor instead, under the noses of Hogwarts' teaching staff. There was no longer light under any doors, but the occasional sound caused them to freeze; then scan for danger, before breathing again once the coast was clear. Gary's heart was thundering because they'd nearly got away with it. In the final act of any adventure, it was usual for him to get caught. Now he was especially wary when things were going too well.

A door opened ahead of them. Luckily, they'd had enough foresight to stay in the shadow below the windows, which provided just enough cover to conceal them. They retreated further under the sill, pressing themselves against the stone, then held their breath.

It was Hubert Feather. A short, heavy man, with an uncertain expression: somewhere between laughter and tears. His senses always assured him nothing was happening, but he rarely believed them. _That. Is precisely what they want me to think!_ From a remote part of Scotland, he pronounced _water_ so it rhymed with _batter_.

With a pair of trousers pulled up over his nightshirt and hair conducting a thousand volts, he looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. Feather's glasses hung on a chain around his neck. He had a habit of squinting, raising the glasses to his nose, then dropping them in disbelief.

None of Tom's group had met Hubert Feather so far, as wandering the corridors was a rare treat. However, Tom spent many evenings at large and had run into the caretaker often.

Feather was carrying a candle lantern; which he held up, pointing the opening towards their hiding place under the windows. As he did so, Feather fumbled for the glasses around his neck. Tom knew he had to act and flourished his wand, casting the _disillusionment spell_ , but with an added refinement. They were physically drawn into the wall, until they became part of its fabric. Leonard saw his legs slide backwards and transform into rough stone blocks. Now they were able to fit snugly under the window, it was even colder and Feather's face was just inches away.

Feather could see nothing out of the ordinary, but this only made him more suspicious and his eyes narrowed to slits. He'd definitely seen something: a suggestion of movement, but there was nothing there. He dropped to his haunches, lifted the lamp and stared hard. The group held their breath and remained silent as the caretaker inspected every inch of the wall. Feather had his mouth open and they caught a whiff of single-malt whisky; while Lionel was fighting an absurd temptation to laugh, perhaps out of fear?

Tom was unconcerned; he knew how effective the spell was. Including ancient immobility rites from the Siberian Steppes, added further fixture to their state. Nothing would move and no sound would leak out; effectively, they were not there. Something the others would have appreciated knowing, while they held their breath.

Hubert Feather rose to his feet and walked back to his chamber, but not before whirling around without warning. The corridor was still empty. Feather mumbled something to himself, then closed his door.

Tom reversed the spell and they emerged from the wall like a set of opening drawers.

'Best not hang around.' Tom and the others sprang lightly across the floor and disappeared down a flight of stairs. They passed under the covered corridor connecting the two halves of the castle, then reached the safety of their dormitory. In bed there was nothing more to say, except ' _night_. They pulled the covers up and began the process of thawing out their fingers and toes; tiredness settled several minutes later and each of them fell asleep. Staying that way until the last call for breakfast, which saw them sprinting off to salvage whatever scraps they could find.

* * *

After breakfast and before their accompaniment to the station, all first formers were waiting in the room they'd occupied on the first night. They were supposed to reflect on how much had changed after one term at school. The future was no clearer of course, but the fog of what to do with their lives, had begun to lift. Where would they move to, would they start a family? Would they be successful? Ultimately, was life going to be a fulfilling, or painful experience? The questions were still a mystery, but ever-so-slightly, less daunting.

One of Ravenclaw's prefects entered the room: Blodwyn Thomas. Tall, dark haired and occasionally severe looking, she was also a member of the quidditch first team. Contrary to appearances, she was especially kind and came from the rocky, north coast of Wales; Blodwyn never looked down on new students, unlike many in the sixth form. She preferred to encourage everyone and remind them all that they had a valuable part to play in school life. Influenced by her grandmother, a witch with several original spells to her name, she believed that what you reaped in life, was what you sowed.

'Good morning, everybody.' Blodwyn was nervous, though few would have suspected it. 'Your bags are being taken to Hogsmeade Station, which Mr Feather is overseeing.' She looked down at her notes. 'So we'll be walking over there, to get some fresh air before the long journey to King's Cross. Of course, if you've got any questions, don't be shy, I'm right here.' Blodwyn finished with a sweet smile, usually absent when her head was crammed with everyday worries.

Gary tapped Tom on the chest with the back of his hand, and maintained eye-contact with Blodwyn.

'Tom... I'm in love again.'

Several girls nearby, tutted.

The Hogwarts Express drew into Hogsmeade Station, with squealing brakes and carpets of steam. The entire walk over, Gary stayed at the front, taking Blodwyn at her word and asking her anything he could think of.

'So to recap: charms, potions and advanced arithmancy are the best N.E.W.T.s options?'

Blodwyn smiled patiently.

'It really depends on what your strengths are and what it is you plan to do with your life. They're probably the best choices for me.'

'They are, if you don't mind my saying, very fine choices, Blodwyn. May I call you Blodwyn?'

She breathed in deeply. This boy could not be discouraged.

Blodwyn left the group with the stationmaster at Hogsmeade, who was still coordinating the loading of cases, trunks and students. Blowing into her hands, she took a last look behind to ensure the first form were aboard. Gary was watching her, leaning forward with one foot on a case and a fist beneath his chin; he waved with a hand held high, like they were old friends. Tom pulled Gary's hand down and pointed him towards the carriages.

'It's a long journey to be in an uncomfortable seat. So let's make sure we get a good one.'

They walked along several corridors, before selecting a compartment with two other first formers already in it. Gary knew one from quidditch.

''Right Viktor, this is Tom, in Slytherin too.'

'Danny, Ravenclaw.' Viktor replied, glancing towards his friend.

Both pairs nodded at one another. Gary offered Tom the other window seat, useful for staring at the scenery, but difficult to sleep against. Tom wasn't interested in sleeping, in fact he couldn't; sleeping in bed at night was easy enough, but surrounded by strangers? That was a different matter. Gary was known to fall asleep sitting up, during busy meals.

They shunted south, passing the lowlands after several hours and leaving behind the dramatic landscape surrounding Hogwarts. Movement up and down the train slowed to a trickle and the click-clack rhythm of carriages, rocked most to sleep. Snow-bearing cloud, was underlined by a distant slit of pale yellow; no heavy snow had fallen yet, but winter was planning an assault and Tom was relieved to be missing it. If snow fell in London, it was likely to be far less severe; then he reminded himself to stop thinking about Wool's. It was banished until he reached the top of Wharf Street.

The journey to King's Cross flashed by for those asleep, but dragged for Tom. Darkness had already fallen and they left the train under dim platform lights. Gary slapped Tom on the back in front of the bus stop on Euston Road and they went their separate ways. Tom saw a tram heading to Leicester Square — one of few connection points between north and south London — so he skipped between slow moving cars, dodged a cycle and ran up the stairs. A seat was free at the front and he blurred his vision, watching the West End lights from the upper deck.

Jumping from the rear platform in Trafalgar Square, Tom caught the connecting service to Woolwich and within thirty minutes the old neighbourhood surrounded his tram. As promised, he only thought about Wool's again, once he'd reached the top of Wharf Street. It was often said, but true: the orphanage looked so much smaller, now he'd spread his wings. Tom was still thinking about their perilous climb to the Astronomy Tower, earlier that morning: the wind-blown highlands, black crannies and the loch's wrinkled surface. Deptford felt dead to him. If there was a passionate centre to his being, this was far from it.

Tom let himself in through the boys' entrance at the back; then peered round the door to his room, half-expecting someone to have moved in. When he twisted the Bakelite dial, a gloomy overhead bulb illuminated with a click, so he began unpacking his things.

Parnaby looked in; presumably he'd seen him arrive from his study.

'Tom. My my, how you've grown.' He had Kit and Judith in tow. Kit took Tom's offered hand and pulled him into a bear hug.

'We've missed you round here. Not been the same. At all!'

Judith also gave him a hug, but then she and Parnaby retreated to the door.

'I'll let you catch up, Tom. We'll speak later.'

Kit helped him unpack while they chatted. Tom was full of stories, but held back on most of them. Little out of the ordinary happened at Wool's and the last thing he wanted to do was rub in how interesting his life had become.

'You must be knocking their socks off.' Kit was smiling.

'No,' Tom replied. ' _There's_ plenty of good students up there and I'm just one of many. In a few years perhaps.'

Kit left at 8pm, so Tom took several books, scrolls and the writing kit from his locker. They formed the bulk of his luggage and he planned to use them daily. Tom already felt the humdrum routine of Wool's weighing him down, so he reminded himself that in four weeks, the Hogwarts Express would be returning him to school. _Hold on to that thought_ , then put up with the bland surroundings and institutional smell. He had future plans now, to keep these previous disappointments at bay.

At nine-thirty Tom switched off the light, pulled his blanket up and tried to convince himself it wasn't so bad to be back. He fell asleep and was drawn into the most profound dream of his life.

Tom's chest was seizing. Now it was burning and he tore off his shirt. The pain was so intense that he had no energy left to scream; he prepared to welcome death — anything — just to make it stop. Tom's chest split apart and tearing its way out from inside, he recognised himself: filthy and neglected. He had no eyes, just sockets of bare skin, no nose and his mouth was toothless. Tom watched this hideous version of himself, tear apart what was left of his body; breaking bones over its knee, hissing with pleasure and feeding the parts into its mouth. He was being consumed alive, by himself.

When Tom awoke, his hand was shaking. Dreams were always identifiable as dreams; often they felt realistic, but belonged in another dimension. This was real. He felt the pain, loss and horror, not distantly, but up close and personally. He'd dragged himself back and survived by a whisker. The fear he felt was pure; increasing and subsiding as he breathed in and out. There was nothing to comfort him when his eyes searched the room; Tom was alone, had always been alone and according to his dream, would spend eternity alone.

He hugged his chest and drew up his knees; mind spinning out of control and begging for help. Tom turned the light on and reached for his pocket watch: it was 3.35am. He lifted up his vest and there across his ribs, his skin had…? He felt carefully, then flinched; since it was tender like a burn. The skin across several ribs, below his left arm, was covered in scales. Smooth and silky when stroked towards his back; dry and crackling towards his front. Tom's stomach liquefied and he held his face in distress. What had happened and was his return to Wool's the cause?

After what may have been an hour, the fear ebbed to a more manageable level. He hadn't been dragged to a burning pit by demons and was still in his own bed. Some of the magic which came from the restricted section, carried stern warnings about side effects. He paid no attention at the time, dismissing the warnings as fearmongering; put there to prevent him climbing the ladder to success. There may on reflection, be substance to those warnings.

Tom lay awake, covering the scales with his right palm: both similar in size. The murk before dawn picked out the detail in his room, then he fell asleep for the half-hour before breakfast. The dream did not return. What he was most afraid of, was now unclear; was he more afraid of dying, or spending eternity alone?

* * *

Christmas Day at Wool's was a welcome relief from the usual treadmill of work and duties. Everywhere was shut, so the orphanage had a full complement of boys. The rooms were already spick and span by 9am; since there were only so many tasks to keep them occupied. At ten in the morning they walked to St. Alfege Church, in Greenwich. As their Christmas contribution, Wool's boys cleaned the pews and picked up rubbish in the graveyard. The vicar was reminded, as he always was at this time of the year, that those with the least, often gave the most.

During the service, Tom sat beside Kit. They were asked to _let us pray_ , so Tom looked around the church. Most of the community squeezed in over the day and with a war looming, there was much praying in evidence. Tom was struck by Kit; however, who had both eyes shut and his head facing the plastered ceiling. Kit's lips were moving silently in prayer, despite having no interest in the church.

They left St. Alfege's and retraced their steps down the Greenwich High Road, while bells pealed across the city. Men in double-breasted suits and dark hats, women in two-piece, skirt suits, or twinsets and coats, hugged their friends and neighbours. Tom's dream from several weeks earlier had not returned, but his skin condition appeared to be permanent. Pretending to reach for something in his jacket pocket, he touched the scales to check if they were still there.

There was an icy wind, trees were bare and the sky overcast, but peach light leaked through breaks in the cloud. Smoke from ten-thousand hearths climbed upwards at a lean. Kit was nearby, but deep in thought. Every so often he shook his head; conducting a heated debate with himself.

Their Christmas dinner was held at 3pm in the mess hall and thanks to Parnaby, Tom was spared kitchen duties. He placed a hand on Kit's shoulder, when they were walking towards his room.

'Everything all right?' Tom asked.

'Fine.' Kit was shaking his head as he said it. 'Well… Not really Tom, no.'

Tom followed Kit into his room, where over the following minutes he explained what was upsetting him.

'It's war, Tom, more or less guaranteed! I've spoken to Danny Briggs and Walt Bromley, over at the cattle yard. They were in the last one and keep up with news and suchlike. The things they're telling me, Tom? You wouldn't believe it. Their merchant fleet operates out of Kiel and Bremerhaven and the stories that are coming back!'

Kit shook his head, not wanting to believe them himself.

'They've swallowed up Czechoslovakia, now they're starting on their own people. I heard that presented as a fact, day before yesterday. Our government's approved transport of children here, using the merchant fleet. They're smuggling children out Tom, so they don't get murdered! People like us and I've heard Wool's might take a few. I don't want to believe it, but I've known Danny all _me_ life. If he says it's going on, then, far as I'm concerned. It's going on.'

'What are you planning to do?' Tom already knew the answer.

'I'll fight Tom, I 'ave to. Tried to join the regulars yesterday, but they just said, _you're too young lad_. They need people mind; they're recruiting right, left and centre, it's just they don't need me yet. I suggested the Local Defence Volunteers and one of them laughed. Meanwhile somewhere, they're sending children to prison and who knows what else?'

Kit was pacing like a lion in a cage. Always a passionate person, his moral compass insisted that justice was everyone's responsibility. Naturally, he was at the front of the queue, first over the top and last man standing.

Tom consoled him, but was secretly relieved. Kit was family; the only family he'd ever had. Him joining the army was like a knife wound in Tom's side and everyone was aware of the stories. Yesterday he'd flicked through a newspaper, pushed between the railings along Mudlark Way. Cover to cover hysteria, denial and hand-wringing. War was on the way.

After Christmas dinner: beef-shank scraps from the market and marmalade roly-poly, Tom asked Kit to come to his room. He'd calmed down after his meal and an hour of carol singing had also helped; it wasn't in Kit's nature to be angry for long. Tom had bought a compass for him in Diagon Alley, during his first visit; which he'd also enchanted, to guide Kit away from trouble. The compass was an early project at school and he'd spent a great deal of time ensuring it worked effectively.

The gift was tied up in brown paper, which Kit unwrapped carefully. He held and examined the compass, saying nothing and Tom thought he might not like it. Instead he unexpectedly gave Tom a hug, too tongue-tied to find the right words. Kit smiled and nodded to a package on the window sill which Tom hadn't noticed. He never received presents, so spent several moments turning the package over before opening it. Inside was a tiered box, handmade and intricate; something Kit would have spent months perfecting.

'For pencils and _that_.'

It had a slide cover, which when removed, allowed the top tier to be split apart. There were two compartments on either side, with the main box below. The hinges were recessed, which would have required a great deal of patience and skill. Tom smiled too; words often cheapened expressions of gratitude between friends. There was a knock at the door.

Judith had a package for him and Tom immediately felt uncomfortable, since he hadn't got anything for her. She wished him a merry Christmas, pecked him on the cheek and handed over the present. Inside the wrapping was a polished wooden heart the size of large coin; which opened when you twisted it.

'To take back to school and remind you of home.' She offered by way of explanation.

Tom nodded and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek; all the while wondering whether she'd replaced _me_ with _home_ at the last moment. When he withdrew, she noticed his flat expression and looked concerned.

Tom faked a smile and assured her it was something he'd treasure; then Kit showed Judith his compass and the moment passed. A year earlier, a gesture like this from Judith, would have filled Tom's heart with confused outpourings of love.

After lights out and lying in the dark, a finger toying with his patch of scaly skin, Tom was thinking about Judith's reaction. She implied the gift was from her, but the moment he'd made contact with her cheek, he saw the truth. Judith hadn't selected the heart; Edgar Wallis, her boyfriend and Parnaby's part-time bookkeeper, paid a craftsman to make it.

The previous summer — before Tom left for school — a group of the boys had spent an afternoon on the sandbanks beside Tower Bridge. It was a sapping walk from Deptford, especially in the dusty heat along Bermondsey's streets. While Tom was cooling off with the other boys, Judith and Edgar were talking about him; he saw and heard their conversation from Edgar Wallis's point of view. Judith drew attention to her glossy hair with a head toss, then shielded her eyes from the sun. She was telling Edgar that her father had been using Tom to collect money. She'd overheard conversations and rifled through his drawers for snippets of information. Parnaby thought that with proper supervision, Tom might prove a useful asset in his off-the-books, business dealings. Why not for her and Edgar too?

'He's sweet on you,' Edgar smirked, 'I've seen 'im looking.'

Judith scrunched her mouth.

'He's a funny fish. Turns up silently, when you're least expecting it. Gives me the shivers.'

'You don't _'_ ave to like 'im. Just get 'im on board. Jack Yardley _give_ your dad some money he owed: not on the books, strictly cash, _like_. I _got_ a cousin _what seen_ it. Says Jack never looked the kid in the eye. Says it _weren't_ proper. 'E thinks the kid's behind the whole thing, not your dad. Anyway... You just keep him looking at you.'

He reached forward and tickled Judith. She giggled, half-pretending to push him away, before he whispered in her ear.

'Not so difficult,I should think.'

Tom's face was emotionless; as he stared at the tiny Moon, reflected in his overhead bulb. In a week he'd be twelve years old, but already he had the determination of an adult. Tom would capsize their plans. He wasn't sure how he'd do that just yet, but was certain of one thing. Judith — his safe harbour in emotionally stormy waters — had betrayed his trust. She'd lied about her feelings and from this day forward: she meant nothing to him. Judith, would also be the last to know it.


	6. VI: The Lost Morning

**VI - The Lost Morning**

It was still dark when Tom left Wool's in the second week of January and this time there was no farewell party to see him off. Air temperature had dropped dramatically overnight and the pavement slabs beneath his feet, glistened with hoar frost. He waited for the tram near Deptford Market and watched other Londoners hurrying to work. A woman wearing an old, red shawl, exhaled clouds of condensation. An unshaven man, eating a meat pie for breakfast, held it upright to prevent the filling escaping. There were several roasted chestnuts in his other hand, which he swivelled to keep warm. The early sun cast amber beams over the market stalls, forcing workers to shield their eyes. An elderly man, wearing a dented bowler hat, stood in the blue shade; arranging hand shovels on his cart. The pipe between his teeth released puffs of smoke, which failed to rise in the freezing air. Tom needed to witness this lack of ambition from time to time; it reminded him what Deptford had in store, for those who abandoned their dreams. London meanwhile, was gradually warming to its operating temperature.

Tom arrived at King's Cross, put his suitcase in left luggage and took the trolleybus south to Piccadilly. He leapt from the rear platform letting his legs adjust, before backpedalling to walking speed in Coventry Street. He was looking for someone.

''Ey up!'

Tom shook Gary's outstretched hand and they stood for a moment; Gary with his hands on his hips, nodding as Tom filled him in on the holidays.

'Right, what's the plan?' Gary was all ears.

'Breakfast? There's something I need to tell you. Cafe Royal all right?'

'Bit rich for my blood, by the sounds of it. I'm a little low on funds this month.'

'My treat.'

'Lead the way, Thomas.' Gary presented a path towards Regent Street.

Tom kept one hand in his jacket pocket, so he could stay within touching distance of his wand. Over the holidays he'd altered both of his jackets; each one now had a hidden flap in the lining, secured by snap fasteners. If his wand was needed, he could be poised for defence in seconds. Tom was the only first former at Hogwarts, who would consider this a precaution worth taking.

As they neared the entrance, a liveried porter wearing a top hat and maroon greatcoat stood in their way. Gary felt rising discomfort. The porter discounted them as customers and made no attempt to move as they approached. The Cafe Royal on Regent Street was a haunt of the rich and famous and had been for fifty years; it was the kind of place Gary knew nothing about. The roughest, dingiest public house in Cheetham Hill wouldn't worry him, but the Cafe Royal was a daunting prospect. He attempted to straighten a tie he wasn't wearing and fumbled with his jacket buttons. Tom raised his eyebrows as they neared the entrance.

The porter rolled forwards to block their path, but instead, swept his arm back to open the door. He'd seen the half-crown in Tom's hand, which slipped into his own as they passed. Tom thanked the porter.

'Thank you, gentlemen.' He replied, touching the brim of his hat.

It was a moment Gary would often replay in his mind, if he was feeling down. Just uttering the word _gentlemen_ , magically brought his smile back.

They were seated towards the back of the restaurant, which was around half-full, but thinning fast. The papered walls had luxurious, Fleur-de-Lys motifs in pale blue, which were echoed in the heavy, damask curtains and pelmets. Ornate, Belle-Epoque mirrors hung from the walls and the number of waiters matched the number of diners. They were dressed _grill-style_ , in black suits with immaculate white aprons reaching the floor. Gary picked up his silver knife and hefted it in his hand. The electric lights were concealed behind Art-Deco coving and pointed upwards, giving an even light. Light that was especially gentle on morning eyes.

A waiter appeared at Tom's side and handed them both green, leather menus. Gary opened his and ran a finger down the text; it was all in French and told him nothing about the food on offer. Tom didn't speak French either. He looked at the menu for a second or two, then handed it back to the waiter.

'Two full-English breakfasts, with toast and tea. Thank you.'

The French waiter ever-so-slightly snorted in irritation, for making no attempt to speak his mother tongue

Their food arrived before it was expected and as they began to eat, Tom told Gary about his plans and situation. It was what he'd decided over Christmas, once Kit had announced that he was joining up. The reptilian skin, the finality of death, the drowning sensations he'd experienced. He could not exist alone for a second time, so by sharing some of what he was going through with Gary, it might ease the burden. Enlightened thinking for a twelve-year-old.

Tom explained in more detail than he'd planned, about the _Charms of Death and Life_. A branch of magic he'd been aware of since his earliest memories, despite limited access to books and education. Usefully, the library at Hogwarts had supplied some of the missing detail. Everything alive possessed a destructive, death element, which was invisible to the naked eye. Occasionally it dominated, which resulted in death, but usually it was overshadowed and life continued. Death and life were bonded to one another and neither could dissolve the marriage. Tom paused. Gary was chewing more slowly and paying attention, but his eyes were vacant; he had no idea what Tom was talking about.

'People don't want to remember the bad parts of anything. Their mind and their memories, filter out the bad, forgetting it and holding onto the good. The parts where they've done well, or experienced pleasure. That's really what life is. However, as you age and death approaches, the opposite is true.' Tom drank some tea and Gary leaned in, guessing they were now getting to the heart of what Tom was attempting to explain.

'Magic performed using the _Charms of Death and Life_ is undetectable, because it only exists as part of a whole within that person. When we forget something we don't want to remember, witches, wizards or anyone else; then it only continues to exist if someone remembers it.'

Gary was aware Tom was clever — everyone knew it — but sometimes it was difficult to comprehend the sheer scale of his thinking. He was busy wrestling with the fabric of their existence, while Gary was wondering whether Tom might give him his other sausage. Gary hoped to be like Tom one day, but knew he would never in several lifetimes, get near his intellect.

'So,' Gary chose his words carefully, 'what you're saying is: the magic in question, is the kind no one knows about?'

'Well… Yes.' Tom resisted the temptation to go into more detail.

Gary chewed some more, but not enough to swallow. Tom was treated to the sight of a rotating, full-English breakfast, before Gary said, 'what are we waiting for? Give us a demo.'

Tom asked for the bill when they'd finished eating; which was neatly typed with no corrections and presented inside a smaller leather wallet. Gary was in a state of shock. Their breakfast had come to nine shillings and fourpence. A fortune. Tom slipped a ten-shilling note into the wallet holding their bill, then left a crown beside it on the tablecloth. He stood up and straightened his jacket, looking to all the world like a youthful bank manager. The waiter collected their bill and slipped the crown into his pocket; then he beat a path through the restaurant and opened the door for them. Gary's mind was reeling. Tom had matter-of-factly left the waiter a tip, that was more than half of their total bill. _And he lives in an orphanage!_

* * *

They decided to take a stroll up Piccadilly. Tom demonstrated how it was possible to confound people, without arousing suspicion. The person would then come to a halt, plumbing the depths of their memory. Why were they in Piccadilly? Where were they going? Come to think of it, where had they been? Gentlemen rubbed their chin, or smoothed their moustache with a thumb and forefinger. Women removed their powder compact and applied a dab or two, certain they were just experiencing a temporary glitch. The _confundus charm_ — fun as it appeared to Gary — was a dangerous spell in the hands of underage wizards. Difficult to cast and near impossible for the inexperienced, Tom's delivery was accompanied by a flash of his green eyes.

'What about _the trace?_ ' Gary knew underage magic carried stiff penalties.

'What about it?' Tom was wondering whether Gary had understood anything he'd said over breakfast. 'Besides, they're not tracing me. They're tracing another boy at the orphanage. A boy who never does anything wrong and knows nothing at all about magic. So I don't worry about it.'

Outside The Ritz, Gary asked what time it was.

'Ten o'clock. We should probably go,' Tom re-pocketed his watch.

Gary frowned. 'But it _were_ nine-thirty when we left the restaurant. Ages ago.'

Tom took out his pocket watch again, held it to his ear and shook. A bus conductor waiting for a driver nearby, checked his watch for Gary.

'Coming up to ten-forty-five, son.'

The Hogwarts Express left at 11am. On the dot.

'Thanks.' Gary grabbed Tom by the shoulder and bundled him forwards.

They sprinted down Piccadilly's pavements, dancing around pedestrians. If they got beyond the traffic at Piccadilly Circus and ran across to Shaftesbury Avenue; they could hail a cab. If they gave him extra to put his foot down; there was also a slim chance the train could be delayed? _No time to think about it, just get to the station._ Gary ran, looking behind him as he tore across Regent Street. The traffic was crawling, but they still had to dodge bikes weaving between the cars. Once they reached Shaftesbury Avenue, Tom flagged down a cab and asked for King's Cross.

'And don't spare the horses.' Gary wheezed between breaths.

The blue Austin had an open driver's section and the rear canopy was drawn back, so the sun continued to beat down on their flushed faces .

Both sitting forward in their seats and praying for clear roads, they were snarled in traffic again on the Euston Road. They jumped out, leaving another tip, then staggered past St. Pancras Station, covering the final stretch on wooden legs. Snatching their left luggage, they sprinted through the wall to Platform 9¾, paying no attention to any nearby muggles. Gary leaned on Tom, who was resting one hand on a nearby wall.

The platform was empty.

They tracked down the stationmaster, who heard all about the appalling traffic and missing their train by an outstretched fingertip. He said nothing while his eyes moved back and forth from Tom to Gary, like a tennis umpire. The stationmaster had been working Platform 9¾ for forty years and had heard it all before, many times. He also knew how fluid time could be, back when he was a young man.

'What you might do. Though in no way did you hear this from me, but what you might do in this kind of situation. Is catch the afternoon post train to John O'Groats. It's platform six in the regular station. Officially, they don't stop at Hogsmeade (the village appeared abandoned to muggles), but it has a tower where they take on water. I'm sure a couple of stealthy lads might get off without being seen.'

He raised his eyebrows and was on his way, but not before reminding them.

'Providing they didn't hear it from me.'

The train left platform six on time and for a few hours they talked, until the adrenaline wore off. Gary fell asleep and tipped his head back, snoring for five, solid hours while they steamed through northern England and into Scotland. The post train rarely stopped and its two passenger carriages contained only a handful of off-peak travellers. They pulled out of Edinburgh at seven in the evening.

Their second wind arrived, once the school was less than an hour away. Both discussed how they might sneak in undetected, now the carriage was empty.

Tom turned to the seat beside Gary.

'Listening to other peoples' conversation, is not considered polite. Show yourself.'

Gary turned towards the empty seat. Perhaps the stress had caught up with his friend?

Tom pointed his wand.

'I won't ask a second time.'

The seat fabric rippled, then swelled, before subsiding into the shape of a man. He was in his late thirties and wore a patched jacket, no tie and black gloves. Although he was smiling, it had a challenging quality, as if Tom's threat amused him. His Adam's apple marked time as he spoke and his head tilted to one side, evaluating whoever he was speaking to.

'Evening lads.' He had the patter of a snake-oil salesman; someone who enjoyed spreading false information.

'Who are you?' Tom continued pointing his wand.

'Flavius Sheldrick. Businessman. Locator of items, _what are_ difficult to locate. You detected my presence, so well done to you. It tells me there's some skill there and you're not afraid to use it. I'm presently open to business negotiations: goods, creatures, ingredients and potions. All having one thing in common.'

Sheldrick raised his eyebrows at Tom.

'They're difficult to locate.'

'You catch on fast. Which impresses me.' Sheldrick lowered his eyebrows. 'I'm the one who knows _them_ that _wants_ to buy and _them_ that _wants_ to sell. Businessman, see?'

Gary disliked Sheldrick already. He talked with superiority and butterscotch-smooth flattery; all designed to throw you off your guard. So he was surprised to see Tom putting his wand away.

'Which ingredients?' Tom was interested to know what this petty criminal could get his hands on.

'The kind that ain't available in shops or market stalls. The kind you don't want generating interest or attention.'

'Like a dragon talon from a living beast?' Tom fixed on Sheldrick's eyes, looking for telltale lies.

Tom knew the difficulty of removing talons from a live dragon. It was a potion ingredient he'd come across last term; a temporary invisibility draught, which excited him initially, until he glanced through the list of ingredients. Who in their right mind would remove a live dragon talon? It was reasonable to assume the dragon would suffer unimaginable pain and discomfort; however, if Sheldrick could secure items like that, it might work to his advantage. Tom had ability and intellect, but being twelve years old was a definite hindrance: especially when it came to buying ingredients.

Sheldrick was taken aback, but most would have missed it. He smacked his lips together several times.

'A dragon's talon is certainly locatable. But not cheap. No less than twenty-five galleons.' He flared his nostrils, meeting Tom's impertinence, with a price fifty times beyond his pocket.

'Done.' Tom reached into his jacket. 'Ten now and fifteen on delivery.'

If Sheldrick had been surprised, that was now forgotten. Money excited him like little else and his eyes bulged at the pouch Tom was siphoning his down payment from; this relationship could prove lucrative. Gary meanwhile, was dumbstruck by the ease with which Tom produced cash, then spent it. Dumbstruck, but impressed

Sheldrick needlessly counted the ten gold coins for a third time, then relayed his instructions.

'An owl will arrive once the item's been located. I'm off elsewhere now, 'cause we don't know each other, see _?_ Buyer collects, drop in at 14 Eden Grove, Hogsmeade. Remember it, check a map, but don't _be asking_ directions or writing _nothing_ down. One big knock, a pause, four small knocks. Enjoy your evening.'

Sheldrick left for the next carriage without looking back.

* * *

Tom was vaguely aware of the temperature dropping, but it was dark and he'd not looked out of the window since late afternoon. They jumped from the carriage door at Hogsmeade and landed in near silence. Several inches of snow had fallen.

'Ooh, it's like the bloody Arctic out here!' Gary kicked a small drift in irritation.

'Quiet!' Tom hissed. The whole idea was not to draw attention to themselves.

Tom pulled his friend into the shadows beside the platform wall. Further down, the engine driver and mate were feeding a water crane into the locomotive tanks, so for the time being, their attention was focussed elsewhere. They both stashed their bags under a sheet of tarpaulin and planned to come and collect them the next afternoon. Then Tom hauled himself over the wall, flattening the snow on top. The drop on the other side was much steeper than either had expected; Tom managed to stay on his feet by spreading his arms, but Gary bounced forward off the bank and crashed into the undergrowth below. Fortunately the snow broke his fall and after a quick dust-down, he was ready to soldier on. There was a quarter moon and its light reflected off the snow, making it easier to see. Leaving their tree cover, Tom pointed to the faint glow of castle lights above the spur: which divided Hogwarts from Hogsmeade.

'Let's run to keep warm,' Tom suggested.

Gary would normally argue, but his fingers were clamped beneath his arms. A numb face and throbbing ears added to his misery.

An owl passed overhead, navigating the wild and lonely landscape; a landscape devoid of movement, except for two schoolboys trudging through the snow. They caught their breath, then entered the deserted school through Merlin's Gate. Tom checked his pocket watch; it was after eleven-thirty, so most students and teachers would be in bed by now. They should get to Slytherin quickly, taking risks if necessary; getting caught was now less important than the embers of Slytherin's, common-room fire. They sneaked through the Fountain Courtyard cloisters and passed the stairs leading to Dippet's chambers. Then they bounded lightly towards the shadows, which should provide them with cover to the stone bridge crossing. Safety was within touching distance.

'Gentlemen, a word please.' It was the second time that day they'd been referred to as _gentlemen_.

Dippet stood at the bottom of the stairs, with both hands clasped behind his back. The tip of his wand swished and the staircase leading upwards was flooded in candlelight. Gary was thinking about the warning he'd been given by a group of third formers. _Don't get on the wrong side of Dippet_ ; he might appear mild-mannered, but there's plenty of bark in there.

They followed behind in silence, through an ajar door and up a spiral staircase. His study was crowded with objects, in preparation for a major sorting session which he never got around to. The piles became randomised over time, as books and manuscripts were pushed aside, in a desperate attempt to find other lost items. Dippet flicked his forefinger, indicating they should sit. There was a selection of mismatched chairs facing his desk, all of which were uncomfortable in their own way. They were also some distance from the headmaster, meaning you had to sit forward: which was even more nerve-wracking. Dippet meanwhile, was busy moving papers on his desk and ignoring them. Then he took a quill and wrote several things down; Gary's stomach complained while the tension mounted. Eventually the headmaster set his quill on the desk, raised his head and spoke.

'Tell me in your own words, Mr Box. Why were you not aboard the Hogwarts Express and why you were attempting to steal into my school at this unearthly hour? I'm curious, so... Continue.'

Gary was afraid, Dippet knew what they'd been up to. All this hogwash from Tom about the _Charms of Death and Life_ fooling the trace? Not a chance. Dippet was behaving in the way all teachers did in this situation. They caught you in the act, then extracted a confession; as if catching you wasn't enough. The headmaster was wearing his academic Tudor bonnet, representing his alma mater: in shot silk of regal purple and lemon yellow. It was also pushed forward like a military cap and why on earth was he wearing it at this time of night? Gary was afraid.

'Yes headmaster. We, err... This morning I.'

'Don't feel obliged to dress it up on my account, Mr Box. I've been sitting on this side of the desk for some time and can assure you that little gets past me.'

Gary sketched out how the two of them met in the morning, had breakfast, enjoyed window shopping along Piccadilly and then Tom's watch stopped. Obviously leaving out the details of their magical experiments. The mad dash to the station, missing the train and then finding another way of getting to school. Leaving their bags at the station, so they could run to school at once and... Well... That brought them up to the present moment.

Dippet folded his arms and thought for a moment: considering the detail.

'Anything…' An enormous pause followed. '...You'd like to add, Mr Riddle?'

'No, headmaster, it's just as Box said.'

They could hear the candles hissing as the wax gently burned. Time stood still and Gary felt like he was shedding his skin with guilt. Dippet had the faintest of smiles, but his eyes were like peas ready to pop from their pod; making it impossible to gauge his mood.

'Good. I'll send for your bags in the morning and you two had better get some sleep. I believe you have some options to select tomorrow? First though, a mug of cocoa to chase away the chill.'

Gary couldn't believe Dippet had bought their version of events. The account was partly true and he knew that was the essential component to pulling off a lie. Keeping some of the story factual, tended to conceal the fiction. He felt giddy with relief and Dippet seemed like a decent man: dispensing advice, mugs of cocoa, _so much for all the rumours!_ They held their drinks and took regular sips while Dippet chatted amiably — especially to Tom — about the excellence of Hogwarts' facilities. How a little bird had told him, Tom was turning out to be _quite the scholar_ ; the kind to make a headmaster, especially proud of his school. Tom was all charm and Gary wished more than anything, he had the charm to influence people in the way Tom did. He promised himself that he'd learn as much as possible from Tom, even if it involved his dreaded nemesis: studying.

'Off to bed now,' shooed Dippet 'and if anyone asks, you were in the headmaster's study. They are of course, quite at liberty to check with me.'

Tom and Gary left, running down the corridors and hoping to get stopped now they had an excuse, but everyone was in bed. After several minutes warming their toes in front of the embers, they slipped into their dormitory and beds. Sleep crept up on Tom, while he revelled in the sensation of returning home. His parting thought was that: if you were good at something, especially something academic, people were blinded to your true intentions. Being a brilliant scholar, appeared to bring him a great deal of unearned trust.


	7. VII: All Hail, Lord Protector

**VII - All Hail, Lord Protector**

Assembly in the Great Hall, was held directly after the last plates were cleared from breakfast. The babble from students catching up on what had happened over the holidays, was extraordinary: the presents they'd received, what they'd eaten, their amusing haircuts and other, similar trivia.

'Quiet!' Dippet bellowed.

'Welcome back to every one of you. In a moment, staff notices, but the purpose of this assembly is to bring together several year groups. Fifth formers to Professor Rose Zysman in Room 7, upper sixth to Mr Bennet from Ministry Liaison in Room 2C. Also, would all first formers remain behind in the Great Hall afterwards. Professor Slughorn will be taking you through your Primary Options.'

Nervousness, like a tightening rope, gripped the first form. It was true, that important exams were some way off, but Dippet was keen to let pupils know that education was their responsibility too. It was never too early to think about what your long-term strengths might be. Primary Options were a harmless way of testing the level of guidance students would need, when making academic decisions. Later on when the stakes rose, O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s would dominate their lives and haunt their dreams.

After the rest of the school had left, several teachers presented stand-up summaries, highlighting the merits of their particular subjects. Usually ending with a reference to O.W.L.s, despite them being over four years away. Pupils could pick three of four options, so the choice at this stage was limited. Elementary potions; basic arithmancy; an introduction to transfiguration concepts and muggle study fundamentals. For most it was no choice at all. Muggle studies was a soft option, for those that were particularly weak at one of the other three.

At the end, students were asked to write their three options on a scrap of parchment; they should include their full name and drop it in a cauldron at the front of the hall. Gary Box was folding his up, which irritated Dippet.

'Try not to fold the parchment, Mr Box. We're not holding a secret ballot.'

Tom joined the line and smiled at Slughorn. Then he dropped his parchment into the cauldron.

'Tom?!' Slughorn sounded hurt. 'Muggle fundamentals…? Instead of transfiguration?' He'd quickly read Tom's options upside-down.

'I grew up in the muggle world, Professor, so I'm interested in how it's viewed. From a magical and academic point of view, of course.'

Tom made his decision last term, so had time to concoct an answer designed to discourage any teacher enquiries. Professionally, Slughorn couldn't criticise the muggle studies department any further; however, he did hold onto his injured expression for the rest of the session.

The first formers were given a temporary timetable for next week, written on a movable blackboard. They were also promised that option group timetables would be ready the following morning. One of the house-elves — Aelfric — had exceptional calligraphy skills and looked forward to writing up timetables. He was given a whole evening to do it and excused kitchen duties; always reminding his colleagues that: _a change is as good as a rest._

Ten days later, in Room 6B, high up in Hogwarts Castle, the first muggle study fundamentals class met.

Tom entered the spacious room and saw only one other pupil there. Brian Downer, or _Distant Downer_ as he was often referred to. He lived in his own universe, drifting gently from daydream to daydream, with no one at the wheel. Leaded diamond windows with flashes of green and red stained glass, ran along the back of the classroom, flooding it with light. There were twenty-four antique desks facing a table and blackboard at the front. A number of muggle artefacts were presented in glass and walnut cases, including a pogo stick, some stamps, a loofah and an egg cosy. On the wall were several posters. One for a West-end play, another for a popular film and the last was a recruitment poster for the armed services. It showed a smiling soldier, playing football with his friends. The meaning of these artefacts was obvious to Tom, but a mystery to most first formers at Hogwarts. A mystery they had no interest in solving.

There was a functional wood and brass clock above the desk, which made a _clop_ every sixty seconds as the minute hand advanced. Still no teacher had appeared and the class should have started several minutes ago.

Tom heard Mrs Cronin, before she was visible. Jubilant and carrying a jumble of items, she dropped them on the desk, then back-heeled the door behind her. How could a teacher be happy with a class of two pupils? Tom had heard all about Dorothy Cronin during lunch. Bill Howard referred to her as _Dotty-Dot_ Cronin, when he gave Tom a brief history of the teacher and her exploits.

She was smiling broadly because Tom was in her class. The rumours of his ability had reached her too. Possibly the brightest pupil to be admitted in centuries and here he was; in her class. Transfiguration was never an option for Tom, as long as Dumbledore was running it; he was determined to avoid him at all costs. Besides, Tom could read around the subject, that wasn't a problem. Being watched by someone following your every move, was.

'Tom, lovely to see you and I expect you're Brian?' Downer nodded faintly.

'Super. Let's get underway. For today's lesson, I'd like you two…' She was interrupted, mid-flow, by a knock at the door.

Dotty clasped her hands together in delight. More pupils!

'Come in, come in, welcome, please take a seat. Plenty of room for everyone.' She exhaled deeply. 'I can't tell you how smashing it is to see you all.'

Three girls. So Brian straightened up.

Dotty continued.

'Now, in muggle society, this would be an excellent opportunity to formally introduce yourselves. If you could give me your names and houses.'

The first girl was especially chirpy and piped up immediately. 'Hi there, my name's Vivian Mitchell. From Chicago, Illinois, a long way from home and… Well... That's me. Also, I'm a Ravenclaw.'

Next, a shy girl whose eyes were only half-raised towards Cronin.

'My name's Eudora, from County Meath. In Ireland. Near Trim. Eudora Pippincraft. Is my whole name, my full name… I meant to say... I'm in Ravenclaw too. So...' Then she stared at the empty blackboard with a worried expression.

The last girl looked up, glanced sideways at Tom for an instant, then addressed the rest of the class.

'Hello everyone, I'm Betty Garrow, from Paris. Originally from London, but living in Paris till recently. I transferred from Beauxbatons Academy this term. I think that.' She looked at the other two girls. 'I'm in Slytherin?' Eudora nodded vigorously.

Tom had seen Vivian around; she was often holding court in corridors. She had a way of standing with both hands on her hips, that forced you to stop and notice. _Pretty, but no shrinking violet_ , was how Gary had summed her up. Eudora was softly spoken and Tom may have passed her between classes, but wasn't sure. She had a sweet nature and wore her hair in side plaits, like a girl half her age. When Tom met Betty's eyes, something stirred in his stomach, nerves, happiness, fear? Either way, he had no interest in encouraging any feelings; Tom was still smarting from Judith's deceit.

Betty had shoulder-length, black hair, plump lips, wafting eyelashes and striking, sapphire eyes. Something about her natural movement, suggested a kind person; humble, but confident of her feelings. Tom realised he was evaluating Betty with interest and turned his attention back to Cronin.

'Today we'll review the syllabus, but next lesson, the plan is to engage in full muggle conversations. Discussing our personal histories to stimulate interest. So you're in for a lovely treat.'

Brian Downer yawned without sparing Cronin's feelings. When she stopped talking, her smile twitched several times, before an emergency team of facial muscles took over.

* * *

One of the perks of taking options, was that library periods were different for different classes. While transfiguration lessons were running, the muggle fundamentals class had a near-empty library to themselves. Tom sat elsewhere and Brian Downer was in a leather armchair beside the reception desk. Pretending to read for the first few minutes, before his head tipped back and the book fell into his lap.

At the far end, Eudora, Betty and Vivian found some seats. A cosy nook, well lit and protected on two sides by a wall and window; in front, filed like dominoes and smelling of dust, were two dozen bookshelves. Only a handful of older pupils were studying, presumably for mock O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. Talking during library periods was not allowed, but almost the entire school was in lessons, so they wouldn't be disturbed for the next hour.

Vivian had her back to the wall, blouse top button undone and tie loosened; Betty's tie was immaculate: a small knot, with an art deco brooch below. She sat to Vivian's right, facing the window. Eudora, opposite Vivian, instantly regretted her choice; now she couldn't see anyone approaching from behind. Several boys had gently pulled her plaits, while walking between lessons on Monday afternoon. Betty assured Eudora that they just wanted her to notice them, but weren't brave enough to say so. She cheered up briefly, before deciding that that might be the case, if you were as pretty as Betty.

Vivian had some chocolate, which she broke, then handed pieces to her two friends. As she put a piece near her mouth, all of it vanished.

'Oh yeah. No food in the library, I keep forgetting that. So Betty, tell me about Beauxbatons Academy. Daddy was tossing Beauxbatons around when we came over to Europe, but, you know? We speak English and where else do they speak English? In England right, so it was pretty much a done deal. What's it like? Nice French boys?'

Eudora desperately wanted to correct Vivian: that this was Scotland _,_ not England. Instead, she tried to hide her chuckle at the mention of French boys; Vivian always turned the conversation around to boys. She'd already been on three dates back in the States, though _none of them serious_ by her own admission.

Eudora's neighbours back in Ireland had a son, but he never spoke to her; there were only nine other pupils in her class and six of them were girls. In all honesty, she'd never known any boys.

Betty smiled, as if remembering something she wasn't keen to share; then she looked up. 'We lived in Paris, but Beauxbatons is much further south, in the mountains and very cold in the winter. French boys? I… No... No one really. Some good friends. I miss them and get homesick occasionally, but I'm here now.'

Vivian smiled knowingly, recognising a raw nerve had been touched. Eudora just looked relieved, Betty was like her: a long way from home. Plus, she was the most fashionable girl Eudora had ever seen, let alone met. She was cool. Eudora had picked up the word _cool_ from Vivian, whose father — a jazz fanatic — used it constantly around the house.

The surprising truth was that Betty didn't care about being cool or stylish. She'd been nothing but supportive and caring towards Eudora, during the short time that they'd known one another. Vivian was brasher and almost without sentimentality, but her conversations were risqué and exciting. Eudora would do anything for Betty. That was part of Betty's charm: you would do anything for her, but she would never ask you to. In the weeks before starting at Hogwarts, Eudora had hardly slept. She knew no one would speak to her and everyone would be intelligent and funny.

Eudora had lived near the east coast of Ireland all her life. She imagined globe-trotting, sophisticated students, who would tire of her simple stories and conversation. Betty had sat down next to her in the Great Hall, on the first day of spring term — when she'd been at her most vulnerable — and complimented Eudora on her smile. If she thought about her relief at the time, pinpricks of tears formed in the corner of her eyes.

They'd fallen in together. Eudora spent far too much of her first term alone, on the fringe of groups, but never really in them. The contrast of having friends was so stark. Her and Betty had passed Vivian in the cobbled courtyard after their first meeting. She was standing with her hands on her hips and announced that Betty was the coolest, most fashionable girl in the entire first form. A compliment she tried to downplay, saying they all wore the same uniform, but the three quickly gelled. Something Eudora could hardly believe, even now. She'd had friends before, but never cool friends.

'What about Tom though?' Vivian flipped her eyebrows up. Betty, looked away quickly, missed by Eudora, but a dead giveaway to Vivian.

'He's...' Betty shrugged, genuinely stuck.

'He's nice.' Vivian finished Betty's sentence, then burst into infectious laughter.

'Shhh, shh,' Betty pleaded with her eyes and smiled at the same time.

'How 'bout you Dora?' Vivian had already shortened her name.

'Me?' Eudora whispered, genuinely shocked.

Vivian's expression changed to curiosity, when she saw emotion flash across Eudora's face.

'Wait, don't tell me you're a fan of Tom's too?'

Eudora couldn't breathe and her cheeks glowed like they'd been buffed with wire wool; she tried to speak but her breathing was now so shallow, nothing came out. She'd gone from happy to traumatised, in fractions of a second.

'Me, no! I'm not the type. Or his type, I expect? I don't know. I'm sure he likes Betty.' There were notes of desperation in her voice.

Betty laid a palm over the back of Eudora's hand, to reassure her and she instantly felt calmer.

'He's something of a handful though?' Vivian crossed her eyes briefly.

Betty started to giggle and the other two joined in. The moment passed and they discussed other things, but Eudora had escaped lightly. She had stern words with herself later that evening, when writing her diary.

Eudora could not afford to be so poorly prepared. She had a favourite dream: to live in a cottage beside the sea, with lots of animals, lots of children and a husband. She never wanted to think who else would be involved, or how it might happen. She just liked imagining that one day, everything would slot into place. She'd imagined her children, the animals, the cottage, inside and out, but never until their first muggle studies class, had she imagined someone else. Her future husband was always left blank.

She didn't want to be Tom's girlfriend. She didn't in all honesty, know how to be a girlfriend and considered herself too young. Eudora shuddered. She was imagining her mother's shocked face, at being introduced to any kind of a boyfriend. _Mummy, this is Tom._ The horror! Eudora wanted to meet someone like Tom later, as an adult and for him to ask for her hand in marriage. There, she'd admitted it. She also wanted to stop imagining him in their cottage during muggle studies classes, but he kept reappearing. Usually with a cup of tea and news about young Pandora discovering blackberries at the bottom of the garden, or some other snippet of family life. It was how she got through difficult times and it never failed to make her happy.

Unfortunately, Tom appeared to like Betty and Betty was the last person she could ever disappoint. Eudora's life had become much more interesting during the last few weeks, but much more confusing too.

* * *

The first week of February brought fierce blizzard conditions and a siege mentality swept through Hogwarts. For four days the wind droned and dunes of snow drifted up the walls of the castle, covering the lower windows.

Pupils wore scarves and bobble-hats to lessons and if you didn't eat your hot meals immediately, they quickly cooled to lukewarm. The school population appeared to swell, as no one was ever outside. Corridors were damp, congested and noisy between lessons, quidditch was cancelled and there were few opportunities for pupils to vent their energy.

Tom was enjoying some fresh air in the Fountain Courtyard, along with dozens of other pupils. Sheltered from the icy wind lashing the outer walls, a flake or two settled on the frosted cobbles. The fountain had frozen mid-flow and its cascading ice was dusted with snow.

'I'm off,' Gary tapped Tom on the shoulder, 'library period.'

'Have fun.' Tom raised his eyebrows.

'It's not too late to join us in transfiguration you know, I asked. You're wasting your time with Dotty.'

'You sound like Slughorn.'

'Well. He's right for once.' Gary smiled as another thought entered his head. 'Sure it's not so you can get close to our Betty? Betty _The Beauty_ Garrow.'

Tom shook his head as he climbed the tower staircase to muggle studies. He had no intention of joining Dumbledore, besides which, he enjoyed muggle studies. It was all about the place he knew best.

Tom sat three rows back and Brian sat at the desk nearest the door: the shortest route in and out. The three girls sat in the front row, to Tom's left. You could sit anywhere, but this arrangement suited everyone, so they stuck to it. Cronin came in carrying a cup of tea, an affectation she'd adopted to connect her to the subject; like French teachers eating croissants for breakfast.

'I'd like you to move your desks together: two rows of three facing each other would be splendid. Please, no deliberate scraping, Brian. We're having a full-lesson exercise: muggle socialising!' Cronin looked directly at Tom and beamed.

She loved teaching and if there was one thing that got her leaping out of bed in the morning, it was a star pupil. Tom was making her the talk of Hogwarts' staff room. The last few weeks were the most enjoyable she'd had, since taking up her post six years earlier: six years of being invisible. Last night she'd spent all evening in her study, devising this exercise. Happy times.

Cronin explained that they would get to know one another as muggles do, by having several, stimulating conversations.

'You must imagine we've just met, say in the street, or a bus queue and ask questions. There's no magic available to discover those important, little details; muggles have to ask the right questions. After five minutes the top row will shuffle down and we'll all take a turn with someone else. I'll be joining in to make up numbers. Then we'll write down what we've learned on the board. Everyone clear? Brian?'

For the next half hour or so, they shifted seats until each of them had asked and answered a range of questions.

 ** _Vivian and Brian:_**

VIVIAN: 'Hi, where are you from?'

BRIAN: 'I'm currently based in the accounts department.'

VIVIAN: 'We're just pretending to be at work, Brian. It's make believe.'

BRIAN: 'I'm from Newcastle.'

VIVIAN: 'Is that near London?'

BRIAN: 'No.'

VIVIAN: 'What's your favourite food?'

BRIAN: 'Bread, I s'pose.'

There was an exceptionally long pause, during which Vivian nodded to encourage Brian. Eventually he responded.

'Where are you from?'

VIVIAN: 'We're from Illinois. Daddy — Elias Mitchell — is vice-president of the Magical Congress in the States. Grandma was Funanya Jelani, Magisterial Hoodoo Spirit of the African Diaspora, but she passed last year.'

Brian mimed putting his fingers in his ears.

BRIAN: 'More than I needed to know.'

Vivian slowly shook her head. It constantly surprised her how rude this boy could be.

 ** _Tom and Eudora:_**

TOM: 'Which part of Ireland are you from?'

Eudora's eyes widened in surprise. Tom had noticed her accent and thought about where she was from. How exciting!

EUDORA:'Near Trim, in County Meath. It's beautiful. Windswept perhaps, but green pastures and big skies.

TOM: 'What do you like doing, what are your hobbies?'

Eudora was struggling to concentrate. This was the most enjoyable activity she'd never imagined. Tom wanted to know all about her and he seemed so interested. It was taking her breath away.

EUDORA:'I love animals. I'd really like to be working with them one day.'

TOM: 'Me too.'

This wasn't strictly true, but Tom knew how these conversations worked and couldn't resist showing off a little. Betty was sitting at the next desk and he thought she might be listening to their conversation, despite having one of her own. Tom hated himself for it, but he was trying to make an impression on her, despite promising himself he wouldn't.

Betty shuffled down a space when they were asked to change again; she smoothed her skirt, then locked eyes with Tom.

 ** _Tom and Betty:_**

TOM: 'Hello.'

Betty broke into a smile.

BETTY: 'Hello back.'

Tom just missed smiling. There was a lot of involuntary eye contact between them.

TOM: 'Why did you come to Hogwarts after Beauxbatons?'

He was good at this exercise, much like everything else. Tom was going to get her to say something she might regret, but Betty didn't care. His interest sounded genuine.

BETTY: 'My father, _umm_. My father is a muggle.'

Both Betty's friends picked up on this fact, despite the babble and chose to hide their surprise.

'Stationed in Paris — he's a diplomat — war looked likely to break out. We were in harm's way, so he moved us back to London and I came here. It was safer.'

TOM: 'Not easy, I expect.'

Betty felt her throat constrict. He was making her feel vulnerable.

BETTY: 'It wasn't. Where are you from?'

Betty raised her eyes and there was a hint of mischief in the question.

TOM: 'London. On the river, near the docks. Not much to tell.'

Betty's mouth opened imperceptibly, but then she shut it again. Tom swallowed. He was holding back and she knew it.

BETTY: 'Were you always good in school?'

Betty's questions were friendly, not too serious, but probing. She hid her intelligence, but it wasn't clear why. Did she mean: _was he a good boy?_ No he certainly wasn't, most of his education was self-directed. _Was he always academically strong?_ Yes he was. What did she mean by the question?

Cronin clapped her hands; it was time to move desks again.

When the exercise was over, everyone pooled what they'd learned. Vivian described Brian as: _a puzzle wrapped inside a mystery,_ so he bowed an inch or two. Tom's profile was also sparse; he'd held back with everyone. One description pleased him though: charming. The class agreed; Tom was charming. He'd been studying Gary and how charm could turn a group opposed to you, into a room full of willing followers.

After class they wandered down the stairs chatting, but Tom was lost in thought. Forget about the magic; potions; spells and other skills — ordinary, human charm could be the key — because with charm came influence and collaboration. Many people would argue that charm was not magical at all, but many people — despite their numbers — were frequently wrong.

* * *

Tom and Gary were sitting together in potions; it was a double lesson and their attention had been drifting for some time. Ten minutes before lunch, an aroma from the kitchens rolled up the corridor and into their classroom. With a tortured expression, Gary mouthed, 'I'm starving.' They'd been Hogwarts pupils long enough to know the menu rotations and their accompanying odours. Today was chicken and vegetable pie; perhaps not Gary's favourite dish, but up there with the best of them. He was thinking about flaky pie crust, button mushrooms... The classroom door was pushed open by Hogwarts' head girl, Sandra Jiang. Slughorn was writing on the board with his back to the class. He stopped talking and turned around; then a shadow of fear passed across his face. He'd experienced these kind of interruptions before.

Sandra's face was expressionless as she spoke.

'Everyone pack up your things, then go quickly and quietly to the Great Hall. There'll be a formal assembly with the headmaster in ten minutes.'

The class swivelled their heads in confusion; what did it all mean?

'That would be now!' She reminded them, making several students jump.

Slughorn joined in. 'Come on everybody. Gather your belongings and off to the Great Hall with you. Chop, chop.'

Chairs scraped and books, parchments and quills were packed away. Sandra had her arms tightly folded, so talking was kept to a minimum. She had three more classes to collect and was in no mood for messing about.

'Come on Miss Bailey,' Slughorn moaned, 'Varsha can pack up her books without any help from you. Get along, please.'

Being first formers, they were shown to the front of the hall and within five minutes the room had filled. Many of the older pupils were subdued, able to guess why they were there. The room hummed with low conversation, which died away when the headmaster and staff strode onto the stage. Dippet's expression was difficult to gauge; certainly not angry — more ashen — like he'd not slept in several days. Hogwarts' staff seated themselves and the headmaster stepped forward to address the school; his expression now bordered on dread. The lectern's enchanted owl spread its wings and Dippet looked up for the first time.

'We at Hogwarts, consider ourselves a family; there is a connection between each and every one of us. We share our joyful times together and on occasion, our times of sadness too.'

Tom looked at Gary, who shook his head: clueless.

'A first former, who some of you will know — Iain Calder — has been attacked.'

Emotion spread across the hall, accompanied by gasps and expressions of alarm. From older pupils there was the odd, callous shrug, since most of them had no idea who he was. The first formers knew Iain Calder; perhaps not someone you knew well, but someone you saw around. Several girls who knew Iain, sniffled. Along with several others who had no idea who he was.

'Iain is currently in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, under the care of Madam Tristan. However, it pains me to tell you, that his condition has deteriorated since yesterday's attack and the situation remains grave. A healer from St. Mungo's arrived this morning and we are ever hopeful of a positive outcome.'

The headmaster paused before continuing.

'We remain hopeful, but must also steel ourselves for the unthinkable.' Dippet trailed away, unable to give his worst fears, form.

'Iain, playing innocently at the edge of the school lawns, was attacked by a vampire. He would not have seen it approach, so perhaps we can console ourselves that his discomfort was kept to a minimum.' The assembly's grief was replaced by blossoming fear.

'Many years ago, vampires were more common in these remote parts of Scotland, but thankfully sightings are now rare. If however, the vampire in question is attempting to establish a range, then the situation is rather more serious. The Ministry of Magic has been informed and will dispatch an auror as soon as one becomes available.

In the meantime, let safety be our watchword. School grounds and Hogsmeade are out of bounds to unsupervised students, until this matter is resolved. Staff members in attendance: there is a rota for patrols, which I hope you will bring to the attention of those not present.

Do not attempt to tackle such an unnatural being on your own. Be that pupil, staff, or otherwise. These instructions take effect immediately and never forget that we will always be stronger, when we stand together. Iain would be extended the utmost assistance, if we remember to conduct our affairs with purpose and a dutiful sense of calm. That is all.'

The headmaster swept from the stage, closely followed by the teaching staff. Leaving behind and against their wishes, rising panic.

'Well, I suppose quidditch is off then,' Gary felt he had to say something.

'Do you know Iain?' Tom asked.

'No. I've seen him about; he plays with toy knights, dragons and _the like_. Always thought he _were_ a bit old for that kind of thing.'

They funnelled towards the exit while speaking. Lunch preparation was a half-hour behind, so naturally Gary was grumpy.

Nancy Morrow from Belfast — an outspoken girl in their year — overheard the exchange.

'Show some respect Gary Box, someone's life is at stake, you know.'

Gary held up his hands in surrender.

'Fair point, well made.'

Tom and Gary decided on a walk around the cobblestone courtyard to kill time. As they completed their circuit, both glanced upwards, not wanting to be taken by surprise.

'He might be watching us, right now,' Gary shook his head. 'Thinking: there's a couple of prime snacks down there, for _me_ lunch.' Gary still couldn't drop the subject of food.

'We'll be safe for a while now he's fed. Have you seen a vampire before?' Tom asked.

'Er, no! When you do see a vampire, it's right before you get _bit_ and become one.'

'You've never wondered what they look like?' Tom was curious.

'No, I'll gladly go to my grave not knowing what a vampire looks like. Doors are open; move aside Riddle, no one gets between a Box and his food!'

* * *

Hogwarts prep was from 6.45pm to 7.45pm for first formers and usually held in the library. It was an opportunity to complete homework assignments in peace and quiet, in theory at least. Prep extended up to the fifth form, but by the sixth form you were expected to work without being told; supervision was continued into the third form, at which point you would manage your own time. Tom found the day-to-day teaching content at Hogwarts, elementary, so was able to complete assignment work during lessons; he then spent most of his free time furthering his knowledge of advanced magic. Prep for Tom, consisted of reading ahead and recreational study. Especially potions, charms and [defence against the] dark arts, which he considered the three pillars of magical learning. Gary would attempt to imitate Tom, but was never able to complete assignments during lessons. Consequently, he was building a reputation for last-minute cramming: waking an hour early before hand-ins and submitting the bare-minimum standard. Missing breakfast was necessary, which Gary hated, but he seemed powerless to break the cycle.

Tom was deep in thought, studying a weighty magical text, while Gary was watching the minute hand move slowly round the clock face. They were sitting in the library study area, below the mezzanine and among them sat Patrick Jardine from the upper sixth, who was supervising their prep. He could see all the first form desks, except for Gary and Toms'. Jardine's girlfriend — Paula King-Clark — came in and strolled over to his desk. So Gary leaned forward, to peer round the bookcase they were hiding behind. Paula had an enviable figure and a glossy, shiny appearance. Thick, golden hair, with natural waves and her eyes, cheekbones and smile, were the kind you received at the front of the queue. Only success stories like Patrick Jardine, could hope for a girlfriend of Paula's calibre, but that didn't stop Gary fantasising.

Five minutes still remained until the end of prep, but after Paula's short exchange, Patrick gathered his things and left. He shouted behind him.

'You lot can go.'

Some of the more timid pupils decided to stay, but most packed up.

Heading down to Slytherin, Tom and Gary saw Vivian talking to a third form girl — Jinty Harte — also from the USA. They slowed down to eavesdrop.

Jinty could barely contain her excitement.

'Viv, the auror's here and he's a genuine dreamboat. (Her _genuine_ rhymed with _wine._ ) Australian, folks say, but... Jiminy Crickets! He's a fine-looking gentleman. Sandy sneaked a peek at the rota and he's patrolling from eight to twelve tonight. So me and the girls are gonna send out a welcome wagon. He should pass right by the greenhouses, to Merlin's Gate and guess who'll be at the windows above? You should tag along.'

Vivian nodded without hesitation, 'put me down.' She noticed Gary grinning nearby.

'Anyone ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop, Gary Box?'

'Just moving on.' Gary rejoined the crowd shuffling down the stairs. News of the auror quickly spread like a virus.

'We should take a look too. Size up the competition?' Gary was still struggling for a valid reason when they entered the Slytherin corridor. 'There's the tower next to scroll writing. That overlooks the greenhouses.' He was certain Tom wouldn't be interested.

'Why not?' Tom shrugged.

 _Just when you think you know someone,_ Gary thought, shaking his head.

They had a few minutes to change into dark clothing — Tom's suggestion — and reached the tower without being seen. Tom had a new spell for locked doors, which made the thick planks vaporous: essentially, a ghostly version of the door. When passing through, an unpleasant, icy blast tickled your spine, but usefully, the door returned to normal several seconds later. Gary eased open the window facing the herbology classroom and pulled the black velvet curtains behind them. Now their peering heads would be invisible from below.

On cue, the herbology classroom windows were flung open. All of them. There must have been at least twenty girls up there. Gary tried to count and comment at the same time. 'There's Viv. Oh and look, our Betty's taking a goosey gander.'

A bud of jealousy flowered in Tom's chest. Why Betty? She wasn't the type to admire adults, was she? Maybe she was and he just didn't know her that well. Tom sighed quietly and even though Gary heard, he pretended not to. Then the auror made an appearance.

'You're not going to miss this one, are you?' Gary faded into silence.

He was a mountain: around 6'6" and 250 pounds of barely contained muscle. Lantern jawed with chiselled cheekbones and the kind of person men and boys avoided standing beside. The windows above him simmered down, when he turned back to look at the castle.

Vivian broke the silence and shouted.

'What's your name?'

The auror smiled, amused by his new fan club.

'The name's Herbie. Herbie Peniakoff.'

Vivian rifled a further question at him.

'Where _you from_ Herbie?' Older girls included Vivian, because they admired her fearlessness.

'From Melbourne, Australia, but working for the ministry in London at the mo'. Look, I've enjoyed our chat girls, but I've a patrol that won't see to itself. Sleep well.'

He turned to go.

'I will now!' Vivian shouted at Herbie's retreating figure.

He gently shook his head without turning, because he didn't want them to see his smile; encouraging this kind of behaviour would be frowned upon. The girls watched him pass under Merlin's Gate — among them Betty — but she wasn't interested in someone like Herbie at all. Besides him being much too old, he was brash and obvious and she? She liked original thinkers that stood alone; not the kind who used flattery to win you over. Betty played along and joined the group, because it paid to be friendly with older girls. Fitting in at the beginning, made life at school far easier in the long run.

Tom and Gary walked back to Slytherin cautiously. It was before lights out, so no offence to be wandering about, but they wanted to keep a low profile after arriving late at the beginning of term. Gary was depressed by Herbie's appearance; he was the kind of specimen to crush a twelve year-old boy's confidence. Gary pictured Herbie as a thoroughbred stallion, snorting majestically and himself as a donkey: cowering in his shadow.

Tom was trying to rise above his jealousy, but couldn't. Though gentle, it burned steadily inside him. What disappointed him most, was his continual reliance on the feelings of others; he thought he'd taken care of all that, but obviously he hadn't. Tom cared and it always left him feeling exposed.

 _The cobbles leading to the river were a smooth relief, after the tarmac and rough paving surrounding Wool's. The night was still. A howling dog occasionally broke the silence and a new moon was reflected in the black river. The creature slid forward, down the slope to the water's edge. Then a delicious, cooling sensation. Streamlined, with nostrils clamped shut and transparent skin protecting its glassy eyes. Slipping through the water and savouring the tiny undulations. Nostrils pinching and snatching at the early-morning air, with a sense of ownership and freedom. All this was his to explore at leisure. Something indistinct. A shred of human scent: old, musty rags and unfulfilled dreams? Too angry to be riddled with regret. The creature submerged and quickened its pace._

 _Along the shoreline beside Horseferry Place gasworks, Wally Yates — former sergeant in the Essex Regiment and decorated at Salonika — searched the waste land for firewood. Unable to sleep, he'd decided to build a small fire, then nod off watching the flames. Drawn to the water's edge, where the best driftwood was deposited, he stood little chance. The creature saw a man's shadow, distorted through the murk. It leapt from the water, rigid in attack and took him down, sinking its fangs deep into the man's chest. Wally didn't struggle; the shock was already too great for his heart. He simply opened his mouth and expired, while the creature encircled his body like a noose. It struck over and over, relishing his blood's warmth in a lustful frenzy._

Tom was flung back to consciousness and his eyes darted from corner to corner in the darkness. It took many minutes, before his breathing settled from the ragged death-rattle he'd awoken to. It wasn't the first nightmare like this, there were many others, perhaps worse in some cases; the most disturbing part, was the pleasure he experienced when striking his victims. He rubbed his scaly patch of skin and as usual, it felt tender. Tom rolled over, pulling the covers tightly around him and promised to tackle the problem; aware that the guilt from enjoying his victim's misery, would gnaw away at him for days.

Early next morning, storm clouds the colour of wet granite unfurled across the uplands and brought successive downpours. The snow had melted and a hundred Highland cattle, like orange statues sprinkled across the hills, waited patiently for the next deluge. It was fine for the grounds to be out of bounds in weather like this, so a surprisingly cheerful mood lingered in the school corridors.

Shortly after morning break, a scream was heard beyond the curtain wall: not far from the main teaching block. With so many pupils in lessons nearby, the caterwauling charm was triggered. Each class was under strict instructions to stay where they were and account for all students present. Not every student was in class; however, first-form muggle studies were in the library and also heard the scream below. Gary and Tom ran from their usual side of the library and flung open a window; where they were soon joined by Vivian, Betty and a reluctant Eudora. Coming from the direction of Merlin's Gate, they saw Laura Cooper from the lower sixth cradling her shoulder. She was accompanied by Professor Condor, who taught Gaelic incantations to the sixth form. Pelham Condor held his wand up and pointed it skittishly in every direction. What no student missed was that Laura had still been attacked, despite a teacher being present. Eudora put a hand to her mouth; it was the first time she'd felt unsafe at Hogwarts and immediately thought about returning home.

Laura — pale and eyes rolling — stumbled as Professor Condor guided her towards the castle buildings. Betty's hand also covered her mouth in shock; the shoulder of Laura's uniform was shredded and blood soaked. A flap hung from her blazer and below it was a confusion of wool and frayed cloth.

Everyone who was near a window, stayed there, looking up at the rain-bearing clouds for signs of a circling predator. Then shrinking several inches further back when they saw nothing.

Herbie Peniakoff came striding through the gate several minutes later. Under the watchful gaze of half the school, who were still hanging from the east-facing windows. Among them, Headmaster Dippet.

'Mr Peniakoff? What is your assessment of the situation, please?'

Herbie scratched his head, folded his arms and chose his words carefully

'Well headmaster, I arrived towards the end of the attack, so couldn't see too clearly. I drew my wand and sent over several bolts, plus a _tundare spell_ to knock the wind from his sails. One of the bolts found its mark and the feller took to the air in a hurry. Real shame I couldn't finish him off there and then. He might be back, if he's the persistent type I _s'pose_ , but err… I'm doubting it headmaster.'

The rapturous cheering was instant and even Dippet managed a token smile. Then he remembered that Laura and Iain were his immediate priority. The headmaster raised his hand in thanks and left Herbie to sponge up the applause.

The nickname — _Lord_ _Protector_ — had circulated for a few weeks, probably originating from a muggle-studying sixth former. It was a reference to muggle overlord: Oliver Cromwell, so perhaps misplaced at a school like Hogwarts. It hadn't stuck, but at that moment with the heightened emotion and outpouring of relief, the students began chanting it. A break appeared in the clouds and the oppressive landscape was bathed in cleansing, yellow light; fear was replaced by hope and the crowd's euphoria took on a physical presence. It was also a name that lent itself well to chanting.

'Lord Pro-tector, Lord Pro-tector!'

In point of fact, Herbie had missed the whole event. He'd been enjoying some elevenses, in his cottage below the stone circle, because you didn't develop to man-mountain proportions on three meals a day. By the time he'd arrived on the scene, Professor Condor and Laura were well on their way back to the castle. A part of him — the less dominant part — cringed at his lack of responsibility. However, the vocal part, often in charge when dealing with others, cooked up the version of events he'd just shared. The delivery was masterful, the deception: unforgivable.


	8. VIII: McQuillan's Reign of Terror

**VIII - McQuillan's Reign of Terror**

After weeks of damp and drizzle, Friday began with a cloudless sky; though a jacket was still needed when venturing out and a hat if you planned on staying there for several hours. The mood in school had lifted over the last few days, following weeks of gloom. Another assembly had been called a fortnight earlier, not long after Laura Cooper's attack. Iain Calder had died from his injuries. Most were rocked to their core; he was in the care of adults and that still hadn't been enough to save him. The assembly was brief and left students confused by the unsentimental reality of death. The staff at Hogwarts turned their grief to resolution. This would never happen again and every one of them was determined to root out the vampire, wherever he was lurking.

The shock of Iain's death was followed by a period of mourning, but there was no need to wallow in self pity. Everyone knew that people died from time to time, whether you liked it or not. So a school assembly was held in the broomstick practice yard, thanks to the fine weather. Headmaster Dippet faced the students, arranged to his left, right and front, in three ranks. The ban on being outside and unsupervised trips to Hogsmeade, was to be lifted with immediate effect. A spontaneous cheer accompanied the news, which Dippet met with a thin-lipped smile and a quieting motion of his hands. Mr Peniakoff would be staying on for a month or so, sanctioned by the Ministry of Magic; he would conduct searches of the forests surrounding Hogwarts and take several sixth-form classes too. The school governing board were satisfied that the vampire had moved on and life should return to normal as soon as possible. Here Dippet changed his tone.

'Iain's classmates have requested a memorial and after careful consideration, representatives have settled on a bench, with a tree planted alongside. It will be located beside the Dark Forest, where he enjoyed spending his free time. In summer, the tree will offer shade and during the wetter, autumn months, shelter too. Our thanks go to all those involved, for their courage and sensitivity during this difficult time.'

Dippet left through the Sangreal Arch, below the main teaching block. There were still fifteen minutes of break left, so pupils split into groups and stayed on the lawns, enjoying the sun.

During Dippet's address, Jessie Weston from Slytherin informed Tom that there was an owl waiting for him, so he took the first opportunity available and hurried over to the owlery. People didn't send Tom owls and he had no family, nor anyone likely to contact him. Making sure that no one was watching, he entered the tower and ran up the stairs. The owl was scruffy and preening its feathers, but eventually it allowed Tom to remove the tiny scroll attached to one claw. _Meet in H, at 3B. Sat. earliest, FS._ Tom screwed the message up, then reconsidered and tore it to pieces, releasing them several at a time into the breeze. He hurried down the stairs and rejoined his classmates on the broomstick practice lawn.

'Where have you been young man?' Gary had his arms folded.

'Slughorn wants some volunteers for Saturday.'

'Well turn him down, we're off to Hogsmeade.'

'I can't, it's fixed now. Away to Odin's Free School, in Stavanger: so an early start for me.'

'What, are you carrying oranges for the team now?' Gary was unimpressed.

'Not far off.'

'That's one long trip.' Gary poked his bottom lip out.

'Portkey in Dippet's study.'

'Rather you than me.'

'Right, I've got double-muggles.' Tom headed for Room 6B.

'No stop, you're making me jealous.' Gary watched Tom walk away and wondered why everything his friend had just said, was a deliberate lie. He intended to find out.

Tom was first into breakfast when the doors opened on Saturday morning. They had half an hour longer in bed, so if you wanted to eat alone, this was the best time to visit. He toyed with a boiled egg, a piece of toast and some orange juice, but after ten minutes of trying to eat, Tom cleared his plates. Except for the prefect on duty, he saw no one else.

Eudora planned to spend her morning at the edge of the school lawns. A trip into the forest was the initial plan, but remembering Laura's shredded uniform, she changed her mind. Eudora wanted to get some fresh air, not spend hours whirling round at every snapping twig. She saw Gary Box at the bottom of the staircase, standing beside one of the stone columns. He was watching the Great Hall entrance and retreated behind the pillar when someone left breakfast. It was Tom, who set off across the viaduct. She crept up on Gary.

'What are you doing?'

'Shh,' Gary didn't take his eyes off Tom.

When he'd crossed to the other side, Gary turned his head. 'Just keeping an eye on our Tom. He said he _were_ going to the quidditch away match, but Cliff Sinclair's on the team and he says Tom _were_ never going. So, what's all that about?' Gary stared beyond the entrance doors, then looked at Eudora again.

'Something I can _do you for_ , Pippincraft?'

Eudora realised she was blocking his exit and moved.

'I'm coming too.'

Gary turned. His eyes were smiling, but his expression was doubtful.

'You like him don't you? I mean _like-like_ him.'

Eudora's face glowed.

'' _S'all_ right. Your secret's safe with me. Best crack on mind, he's a fast walker; as you're about to find out.'

Eudora wanted to explain herself and challenge what Gary had said, but it was already too late for that. Besides, Gary said it like he wasn't bothered at all. Then she realised that by not saying anything, she'd actually confirmed his suspicions. _Oh, what a mess!_

Tom crossed the Fountain Courtyard and left the teaching block through the greenhouses. He glanced behind him, skirted the wall to Merlin's Gate and then took the cart track to Hogsmeade. It offered little cover, so following someone undetected was tricky. Gary yanked Eudora into the Dark Forest.

Running between bracken and gnarled roots, just to match Tom's walking pace, they managed to keep him in sight. Several times, Gary encouraged Eudora to jump a stream, or edge down a steep slope and he surprised her with his thoughtfulness. Reluctantly, she might have to revise her early opinion of him.

It was a relief when Tom entered the village and they could pause at the end of Peatland Row. He walked along its length and turned the corner, so they ran to catch up.

Tom was standing in front of The Three Broomsticks, just before nine in the morning; he tried to appear at ease, but kept checking his surroundings. A bolt withdrew and the innkeeper appeared at the door.

Gary and Eudora watched the man wipe his hands on a cloth over one shoulder, then shake Tom's hand; she and Gary looked at one another in surprise. An elderly gentleman in a tunic passed them, with a wand poking from his side pocket.

'It's considered rude to spy on folk. Just so _ye_ know.'

The shops were opening; groups and individuals gathered, some stopping to chat, others hurrying to keep appointments. Hogsmeade was preparing for another busy Saturday. Peering round the sides of buildings, was no longer an option, so they decided to mingle instead.

'He's obviously meeting someone. No harm in taking a look.' Gary set off up the high street.

Eudora was torn, what could they do? Now that she thought about it, what should they do? All a-flutter and confused, but excited too.

'Get a shift on, slowcoach.' Gary beckoned with a flick of his head, 'I've an idea.'

It was so simple, that you couldn't really call it an idea. They would enter The Three Broomsticks as customers; find Tom without being seen, then try to eavesdrop his conversation. Not a million miles, from what someone without an idea would do.

'Have you been to a place like this before?' Eudora asked, while they loitered near the entrance. Gary patted his hair and smoothed his clothes self-consciously.

'You kidding? All the time. Muggles call them public houses, or pubs; I _were_ practically raised in one.'

'So that's _a no_ then.' Eudora was getting the measure of Gary. His confidence went up, as his experience went down.

The Three Broomsticks was cosy, dusty and threadbare. It had low, cushioned stools beside the unlit fireplace and taller, leather stools surrounding the bar. Running around the room and served by a separate corridor, were a series of booths with green privacy curtains above. All were drawn back, except a single booth in the far corner. There were long tables with bench seats, for those eating and smaller, round tables for those drinking. The interior was stone, with shaker panelling and above was an exposed, hammer-beam roof. Paintings and sepia photographs filled the barest sections of wall. One showed a crowd at Loch Lochy, ducking as a wizard in goggles and flight gear hurtled overhead. The caption read: _Douglas Blair captures the high-speed flight record from Fort William to Bergen, in 1917. Averaging 461 m.p.h. on a modified, Model-B Firebolt_. Gary stopped reading; the landlord was waiting for them to order.

'I'm up for a butterbeer, you?' He turned to Eudora.

'I'll have the same.'

The landlord filled two half-sized, pewter tankards with butterbeer from the tap. Underage wizards were tolerated during the day on Saturdays, but never encouraged.

'Not seen you before,' he said. More statement, than an invitation to respond.

'Yes. Been meaning to visit for a while now, but…' Gary shrugged, suggesting that too many responsibilities prevented it.

Gary led them into the far corner to find a seat. They selected a table beside Tom's meeting place, which was hidden from the bar behind shelves of cloth-bound books. He nodded at the drawn curtains above, so they eased onto stools beside the wall. Gary put a finger to his lips; there was a conversation taking place in the booth. They sipped their butterbeers and waited for it to turn from small talk, to the meeting's purpose.

'So you got _me_ owl?' Sheldrick took a sip of firewhisky and drew his lips back with a smacking sound.

'Here I am,' Tom replied.

'I've hammered out a deal for the vampire. Crying shame about the lad.'

'Iain.'

'Water under the bridge to us.'

'I said I was interested, but nothing was said about someone being killed.'

'People die every day, son. You're in this now. And what were you thinking? We'd set a trap and lucky us; he's only gone and flown into it. I dunno what they teach at your fancy school, but a vampire ain't a wild beast; they're proper thinkers. Cunning, smart and price always reflects the risk. Three hundred gold (galleons) dead, or seven hundred alive. You think on it Riddle; we're saving people in the long run. Should make you feel better about yourself. Half the fee each. I deal with the kind of people you don't _wanna_ know and you take 'im down.' Sheldrick shrugged at Tom. 'We all come up smellin' of roses.'

Tom was staring at his untouched drink.

'No one gets hurt.'

'Don't worry about it, son. I get the vampire in play, you take 'im out. Simple _as_. Now listen up, you'll need one of these.'

He slid a ring across the table: one of a pair. Gold with a disk of inlaid jet, he touched an identical ring on his smallest finger and a burning skull appeared above the black surface. Then a writhing snake slid from the skull's mouth.

'This'll guide you towards its brother when I give the shout. High pitched and you're no good; humming and you'll find me soon enough.'

Tom put the ring on, which was plain enough to avoid suspicion. He wanted to protest, but Sheldrick was right: no one forced him into this. Half of seven hundred, would easily secure a home away from Wool's.

'Does it have any weaknesses? The vampire.'

'Hmm,' Sheldrick grunted. 'It's not common in type, this one. Goes by the name of Donnan McQuillan. Reckoned to be somewhere over two-hundred-and-eighty years old. Wily, unsophisticated, not interested in castles or estates, prefers to hunt the old way. Over a wild range. Enjoys a fight, hard as nails and no interest in magic; there's your edge. A bright lad like you, _what_ knows a spell or two.' Sheldrick checked his pocket watch.

'I'm on an errand, so... I'll see you, when I see you.'

Tom stayed, wrestling with Iain's death; he'd not pulled the trigger, but was certainly involved in handling the weapon. He pushed his drink away and left The Three Broomsticks, gazing a few feet in front of him.

Gary and Eudora held their breath as Tom crossed the bar, but he didn't look up. They decided to finish their butterbeers and said nothing further. Gary was conflicted; he'd followed Tom to see if he was making money behind his back and he'd certainly been right on that score. Then he'd lied to Eudora about why he was there. Did these competing lies cancel each other out? In all honesty, he wasn't helping a friend; he was protecting his own interests. And doing a spot of lying on the side.

'Shall we go?' Gary drained his glass and Eudora nodded.

Before leaving, he turned to her.

'We never mention their conversation to anyone. Tom won't want _helping_ , that's his way, but we'll try. You know, in the background.'

'I won't mention it,' she assured him.

Eudora was considering how different her life would be, if she'd come down to breakfast a few minutes later.

* * *

After a charms lesson on Thursday afternoon, Gary and Tom were hanging around the Tapestry Corridor and practising a new spell: _speculo_. It produced a shimmering reflective surface, wherever your wand dictated. Producing the effect was not so difficult; what was especially tricky to master, was the size and angle of the surface. Gary created something dinner-plate sized, directly above his head, which had no practical use. Tom, as usual, managed to cast the spell in an effortless and elegant way. With a deft flick of his wand, he created two transparent disks at eye level on either side; then he walked away from Gary.

'Eyes in the back of your head. Handy if someone's following you.'

Gary's smile froze. So Tom knew they'd followed him last Saturday? Was it just a throwaway comment, or one freighted with meaning?

Betty, Vivian and Eudora appeared at the end of the corridor, on their way back to Ravenclaw. Despite being in Slytherin, Betty spent most of her free time with the other two: usually in the Ravenclaw common room.

Gary saw Vivian first and automatically tried to impress her. Tom snapped the side mirrors shut and slipped his wand away. For some reason he saw practice as a low form of behaviour; preferring to give the impression, that his ability was entirely natural. Betty saw the pair of shining mirrors before he dismissed them. She admired Tom for taking the time to practise, also, he'd hidden his wand in modesty; boys usually showed off around her.

'I taught him that.' Gary nodded in Tom's direction.

Vivian adopted a southern states accent.

'Well ain't you just the cat's miaow at magic,' then returned to her own. 'I heard you're scraping an average in charms.' Vivian loved chopping Gary down to size.

'What's a cat's miaow when it's at home?' Gary pretended to be interested.

'What's it doing at home?' Vivian burst into laughter. 'You don't know a whole lot about the States, do you?'

'I know a little jazz.' Gary took her hand. An insanely bold move.

He began to hum a big band tune and prompted Vivian to twirl; usually, she was the person in their year, least likely to tolerate familiar behaviour. However, Gary's boldness had somehow penetrated Vivian's tough outer shell. She rejoined her girlfriends, mock-fanning and fluttering her eyelids.

'You're some ducky shincracker, Gary Box. Oh and that's not jazz. That's swing.'

Tom saw no trace of embarrassment from Gary. Vivian had appreciated the attention, but they were always arguing?

Gary apologised.

'I stand corrected. So what are you up to this weekend? Me and my friend here have a trip to Hogsmeade planned; now they've _gone and_ lifted the ban. Perhaps we might see you there?' Gary waited for a response, but none came.

Despite his confident exterior, Gary was cringing inside; he'd just mentioned Hogsmeade again and surely Tom had to be suspicious now? Eudora's eyes widened. Either Gary was incredibly daring, or incredibly stupid.

He continued to stare at Vivian, before adding.

'I think there's no chance we'll be in The Three Broomsticks during lunch, so I wouldn't bother checking there.'

Vivian's eyes were half-closed.

'Don't worry, we won't.'

Gary watched the three girls leave for Ravenclaw.

'That's a date then. You been to the Broomsticks?'

'A couple of times in the first term.' Tom tried to sound casual, but he was still confused why Gary thought they'd be there. Vivian had just turned him down.

'Good, you can show us the way then.' He nudged Tom with his shoulder and they headed back towards Slytherin.

It was just after noon in The Three Broomsticks and Tom and Gary were sipping their butterbeers, sitting beside one of the windows. Gary deliberately chose somewhere far from his and Eudoras' earlier spying mission. Tom had bought their drinks and the landlord nodded at him in recognition; he eyed Gary curiously, wondering whether he'd seen him before.

They'd arrived on the stroke of twelve; Tom insisted that any earlier was morning, not lunch. He was right, but if Gary had his way, they'd have barged in at opening time. Gary was wearing his brown tweed suit and looked overdressed for their casual surroundings. Meanwhile, the girls were shopping in Hogsmeade. Eudora suggested they leave for The Three Broomsticks at midday, but Vivian just shook her head sympathetically.

'Oh, you've gotta be kidding, Dora? Let them wait. You have to build your entrance if you want top billing.' All of which, passed miles over Eudora's head.

It was one-thirty before Vivian suggested that now would be a good time to turn up. They left the miniature beasts emporium on Blue Bern Road and Eudora crossed to the other side.

'Slow down. What's the big hurry?' Vivian was shrugging and smiling.

Eudora felt skewered: wriggling at the end of a lance. Dishonesty of any kind was unfamiliar territory for her; you had to be so careful when embroidering the truth.

'Just thirsty,' Eudora smiled back.

They entered the bar and scanned the room. Vivian offered to get the drinks, but Gary was over in a flash.

'We're by the windows. I'll get these.'

They sat down together, Gary returned with the drinks and then it rolled in like a blanket of sea-fog. Silence. Scraping chairs; distant conversation; clinking glasses. The five of them delicately sipped their drinks, continually selecting, then rejecting topics of conversation. In total silence.

A man in his late forties came in, wearing a blue suit with a dirty, yellow jumper underneath. He looked around, nodded in their direction and just loudly enough, said: _Tom_. How could this man possibly know Tom? How and why? The silence between them crackled.

'This is nice.' Gary began, then faltered. His mind had been blank for several minutes, but that was so unlike him.

'What about defence against the dark arts, though? Green sparks, red sparks? I squeezed nothing _out the_ end of my wand. Professor de Beauclerk _were_ furious.'

'I managed brown sparks, which I suppose is what you get when green and red are mixed.' Betty took another sip.

'I got green, but no red,' Vivian added.

Gary put his drink down. 'And Tom knocked out a rainbow!' Laughter broke the ice, then slowly, the conversation began to flow.

By half-past-two customers had thinned, so the girls said they should be going. Tom thought about offering to walk them back, but they were already at the door. Betty caught his eye on the way out.

'Give _'em_ five minutes and we'll go. Don't want them to think we're following.' Gary had done it again! His guilt kept giving him away, but Tom hadn't noticed.

They left Hogsmeade and followed the track back to Hogwarts in dim, afternoon light. Pine, oak and Douglas fir trees bordered the path to their right; above which, blue-rock peaks penetrated the low cloud. Hanging mist wove between the trees, like hair trapped in a comb. They walked without speaking, easy in one another's company.

'Tom, can I be honest with you?' Gary asked.

'If you like.'

'Have you and Sheldrick been making plans without me?'

'What makes you say that?'

'Some old man nodded and said hello, the barman knew you; you walked straight to the Broomsticks, like it's familiar. I try not to be too big a fool, Tom, but have you cut me out of your plans?'

They walked on in silence.

'I've thought about it, but no. Sheldrick has something arranged and I'll count you in. It's just... Some of the details need working out first.'

'I knew you would.' Now the air was clear, Gary cheered up and thought about what to spend his share on.

* * *

In the dream he was falling. Gently at first, then accelerating, plunging downwards: beyond any hope of rescue. Tom's eyes snapped open and the movement stopped. He fished around for his watch, illuminating the dial with the tip of his wand: it was ten-to-two in the morning. He extinguished the tip, but now light was coming from under the covers, so he drew them back. A miniature, fiery skull, was projected above the surface of his signet ring.

The skull pulsated with a cold, orange flame, then arched backwards, opening its mouth. A serpent writhed through the gap and spread its jaws, ready to strike. The disturbing spectacle collapsed, before repeating itself, so Tom touched the ring's surface. The skull disappeared and was replaced by a gentle whining in his ear. He glanced around the room and the sound flattened to a pleasant hum when he looked towards Hogsmeade. Sheldrick was calling. Tom was out of bed and dressed in seconds; then he crept silently towards the door. As he climbed the stairs from Slytherin, Gary threw on some clothes, packed his wand and followed. If Gary ran through the forest, there was a good chance of catching Tom before he reached Hogsmeade.

Gary waited in the trees and watched the dark shape moving down the cart track in silence; there was only a sliver of moon, but just enough to provide some definition. As he attempted to control his panting, the darkness started to play tricks on his eyes. Tom seemed to continually vanish and reappear in the half light.

Using the low garden walls as cover, Gary trailed through Hogsmeade unseen. Tom stopped at a cottage, gazed directly at Gary and several other locations, then took out a key. He unlocked the back door and let himself in. The cottage was indistinguishable from those nearby, except the shed door was hanging from one hinge.

Gary stayed crouching up the path and peered over the windowsill at the back; he was now looking directly into the kitchen. Sheldrick was standing near the sink, a bottle of firewhisky in one hand and a glass in the other. He showed the bottle to Tom, who shook his head. They both left through the far door, which probably led to the front room. Gary twisted the back door handle, which resisted, then lurched. Wearing the pained expression of a father who nearly drops his baby, Gary let himself in and rolled the soles of his feet into the hall. There was light coming from under the door at the front, so he tried the room behind. It was a back parlour, with plain sideboards and candleholders sprouting from the walls above; cascades of wax hovered just above the wooden surfaces. There were windows at the back and a closed door leading to the front room. Gary lowered himself to the floor and using his elbows, dragged himself forward. The door was crude planking, with a wide gap near the lower hinge; it gave him a view of Tom and Sheldricks' legs and feet, but the draught made his eyes water.

'I'll get to the point,' Sheldrick paused, 'the buyer's 'aving second thoughts. Says another opportunity's come up: some place called Constanta on the Black Sea. Lovely specimen, he says, available now, without the dramatics.' Sheldrick swirled his firewhisky, looked into the glass, then knocked it back.

'This _don't_ work for me. Promises were made on the contract. So I've renegotiated. If we get this put to bed by midnight, day after next, the deal stands. Bait's no problem and the restraints 'ave been ready and waiting for weeks. You all set?'

Sheldrick's expression was threatening.

'I'm ready. When the vampire's in range, we'll see how he does.'

Sheldrick eased back in his chair; the boy was serious. He didn't look much, but there was iron in those veins and no adult would rely on a schoolboy, so McQuillan wouldn't see this coming. Plus, the boy had grand aspirations, similar to his own. Sheldrick briefly tasted the bliss of gold galleons, pouring through his fingers.

'Good. Keep the ring close, but not so close that others can see it. Go and don't be missed.' He nodded towards the door and poured himself another firewhisky.

Tom got up and left; he could be in bed by three-thirty if he hurried. Gary slowly elbowed his way backwards, got to his feet and tiptoed into the kitchen. He carefully lifted, then returned the squeaky handle back into place, cupping it with both hands; then he staggered up the path — blind — now his eyes had adjusted to the light. If Gary ran the whole way back, he should get there before Tom.

A silver flash came from beside the shed.

'Stupefy!'

Gary heard the hint of a voice, before he was dipped in syrupy warmth. Then everything went black.

During tea the next day, Dippet entered and raised both his hands.

'Can I have your attention please.'

There was immediate silence.

'We have a missing student: Gary Box. He has not been seen since lights out last night. I've spoken to those who share a dormitory with him. It's possible he may have gone missing during the night, but at this stage, I ask you all to remain calm. As far as I am aware, nothing untoward has happened. Be especially vigilant and if you have any information concerning his whereabouts — however trivial — please let me know. I will of course, keep you posted and until this matter is resolved, all pupils are to remain inside the school buildings.'

Dippet produced a parchment from inside his academic gown and squinted at it.

'I would like to see Messrs Justin Fischer and Tom Riddle of Slytherin House, directly afterwards in my study. That is all.'

Fear unfolded in Tom's stomach when he heard his name. How would this affect Sheldrick's plan? Teachers were now alert and on the lookout. What about Gary? Surely this was just one of his hare-brained schemes?

A sixth form Slytherin girl — Shirley Paine — stood over Tom.

'Headmaster's study, Riddle. Lickety-split.'

Justin Fischer left the headmaster's study with a miserable face and nodded back the way he'd come.

'Dippet says go in.'

The headmaster's study was a haven for dust, a grotto of cobwebs and a shrine to postponed plans. Sometimes he put open books down, then found them again a decade later. He might ponder on their original significance for several more years, then… Boom! A revelation would strike him mid-sentence. He'd hurry back to his chambers in search of the hidden text, leaving behind a room full of mystified staff. It was an eccentricity which defined his personality and like many owners of defining eccentricities: he was blind to it. Tom sat in front of Dippet's crowded desk and made eye contact.

'Think carefully Mr Riddle, when did you last see Gary Box? I'm led to believe you two are close friends.'

'I saw him last night, sir, in the Slytherin common room. I didn't see him get into bed, but we would have noticed if he wasn't there. I don't remember seeing him at breakfast, but usually I don't, he gets there towards the end. This afternoon was sport, quidditch practice and we're in different teams.'

'Any trouble at home?' Tom was wrong-footed by the question, thinking the headmaster meant boy with no home _._

Tom shook his head.

'If he did, I've not heard about it.' His ring flared and the flaming skull rose above its surface, but Dippet was scanning the scrolls on his desk. Tom's other hand covered the ring, then slipped it into his jacket pocket.

'Do you have any idea where he might be? Think now.' Dippet had his quill poised above a piece of parchment.

Tom's defences kicked in.

'I've no idea, headmaster.'

Dippet sent him away and Tom spiralled down the staircase, smoothed by centuries of nervous feet. His mind was locked in conflict: try to find Gary, or complete the deal with Sheldrick? What was the risk and reward associated with each? Disappointingly, he was starting to sound like Sheldrick.

Tom walked the long way back to Slytherin, past the Great Hall. Of course he'd try to find Gary first, but it wasn't wrong to protect his interests; he was ridding the area of a menace and for his trouble, he'd receive a fee. Not to lavish himself in luxury, but to improve the quality of his life outside Hogwarts. What was so wrong with that?

He'd set his mind on a flat, or a small house; while the room at Wool's would remain his official home. It would appear on all the right forms, then worthy types would be satisfied he was receiving the appropriate level of care. Care? Hah! It was easy to look at life in terms of neatly, filled-in forms, but he was earning his way out of poverty. Using skills he'd developed himself. The solution was clear; he'd find Gary, then dispatch the vampire.

Herbie Peniakoff was in discussion with Slughorn outside the Great Hall; he had a broom strapped across one shoulder and was wearing flexible, leather armour. After weeks of inactivity and occasional lessons in advanced wandcraft, he was happy to return to what he did best. Pockets of students stood nearby, keen to keep an eye on developing events. Herbie slipped some vials and a plait of thestral tail hair into his belt holster, whipped the broom from his shoulder, then set off at a run. He took flight while still in the building: a stunt which was strictly banned at Hogwarts. Slughorn's eyes followed him for a second or two; perhaps he should have said something about the indoor flying? Darkness had fallen, so Slughorn turned to go and nearly bumped into Tom.

'Come on, Tom; back to Slytherin with you!'

Tom meekly obeyed; this was an important first step in his plan. Now Slughorn would remember seeing him in school, should he be spotted in the forest. The forest where he was now overdue.

Back in Slytherin, Tom changed into his stealthy clothing: a black, woollen jumper and dark, parade-ground slacks; both handed down to him by Kit. Tom considered covering his face with boot polish, but decided against it. He might get mistaken for some unknown threat, in all the confusion. Not owning a broom, Tom would leave the castle near the Room of Lost Wands; which had a selection of second-rate, school broomsticks. A pupil not owning a broomstick at Hogwarts, was unusual. Almost as unusual as never having flown before. So he promised himself he'd buy one on his next trip to Diagon Alley. Tom's flying skills had come along over the last two terms, mainly due to his fearlessness, but he was still uneasy about fully embracing the magical world: having lived so long as a muggle. Plus, there wasn't a great deal of opportunity for broomstick practice above the streets of Deptford.

He let himself through the side-door of the herbology greenhouses and relaxed onto the broomstick he'd selected. A Light-bodied Nightshade Clipper, which may have cut a dash in 1878, but was strictly vintage by 1939 standards. He accelerated into the night sky and flew several feet above the Dark Forest treetops; the chilly night air pierced Tom's jumper, so he lowered himself into a more streamlined shape. The forest below was formless and black, which reminded him of his ring. Tom's eyes flicked in alarm towards his middle finger, where the ring should be, then they screwed shut in frustration. He'd slipped it into his jacket pocket in Dippet's office; the jacket which was now hanging in his locker.

There wasn't time to go back, think! Gary was his first priority, so Tom focussed on the library, spells, charms, anything to help him locate his friend. He obviously wasn't in the castle, so the nearby woods were the next-most-likely location, then Hogsmeade. Tom's showdown with the vampire was due to take place in the Dark Forest, so hopefully, he could run straight from one task to the next.

Tom could transfigure into an owl and use its heightened senses, then he remembered a spell for listening over long distances. He reached for his wand, closed his eyes and stilled his mind to emptiness; he needed the spell's most powerful variant, which required determined visualisation and clear incantation.

'Audius maximo.' Tom's ears itched, then the whining he heard developed into a painful screech. His ears deformed in the rushing air, now they were over six inches in height and they were also able to move independently, so he scanned the forest below. If Tom followed a grid pattern, sweeping back and forth, he had some chance of finding Gary before his appointment with Sheldrick.

A fine plan in theory, but thirty-five minutes in practice and Tom was having doubts. He heard every bird squawk, every babbling brook and even leaves falling in the forest, settled with a tiny thud. Then something: a moan? An animal? No, it was alive but no animal; perhaps an unconscious person, groaning in their sleep? His ears rotated forward and Tom dived, brushing the treetops with his shins. He saw a gap and instinctively burst through the canopy, skimming every branch on the way down. Coming to rest beside a fallen tree — with clumps of earth still clinging to its roots — Tom checked the other side: expecting nothing, but Gary was there! In a manacle and tethered to the tree by a hefty chain. He was unconscious, but still in harm's way. Tom sent up a vivid ball of light with his wand, which hung twenty feet above him. He examined the thick chains; which would need a powerful spell to shatter and none immediately came to mind.

Deep within himself, Tom felt an instinctive stirring and his patch of scales bristled; he was in the sights of a dangerous predator, preparing to strike. Sweeping from above, with scarred, leathery wings, the creature formed into a man. He wore a Mackenzie tartan kilt and grubby Harris tweed jacket; not what Tom had expected at all. This was the kind of man who might enjoya wee dram in the Broomsticks. He was smiling, Tom supposed, because now he had two victims for the price of one.

'Donnan McQuillan.' Tom said, buying himself a few seconds.

McQuillan's smile faded and unconcealed hatred replaced it. Tom's wand whipped from behind his back and drew a line, unzipping his body and transfiguring into a hawk. He immediately took flight and McQuillan's smile returned; he preferred his victims to run. The vampire rotated into a half-human beast with wings, crimson eyes and patches of fur. McQuillan gave chase, but Tom had chosen his form well. Hidden in the upper branches and frozen, the vampire's vision required movement to fix on its prey. McQuillan's eyes saw nothing but grey trees, swaying in the breeze. Tom had time to develop a strategy. His best bet was to stun the vampire, but he needed to weaken it first. Injury would make it less capable, but more aggressive and dangerous; then he'd deliver a hammer blow.

Tom had no reservations about killing the vampire, but that was neither his nor Sheldrick's plan. He needed independence from Wool's and this opportunity would allow him that; providing he remained focussed and captured McQuillan for the higher fee. The planning was over: now it was time to act.

McQuillan flapped onto the fallen tree trunk, in search of a less obstructed view. He was a vile specimen and prowled above Gary's unconscious body. Despite being hideous in appearance, he was also quick witted and knew that threatening Gary, would draw Tom out. He needed to gorge on human blood, now that his nostrils were saturated with its perfumed scent. Launching from his branch, Tom sailed silently behind McQuillan, before transfiguring back to human form; his wand aloft in a claw grip, poised to strike and meet the creature head on.

McQuillan turned, drew back his lips to smirk, then raised his right hand. Talons — recessed into his fingers — burst through the tips as he prepared to engage. Bloodlust overtook his rational senses and the vampire sprinted towards Tom at a terrifying speed.

'Vulnus ictum!' Tom spat out the words and McQuillan's forearm opened up, slowing him to a stop.

McQuillan's tongue extended and he lapped noisily at the wound, despite no blood flowing. Tom had made an error of judgement; vampires had no heartbeat, so cuts and wounds resulted in no bleeding. McQuillan swallowed several laps of blood, priming his appetite, as hatred poured from his dead eyes; he would bury his incisors into this boy's head, puncturing and draining him like soft fruit. Tom had injured the vampire, even if it chose not to show it; healing the wound, would also steal precious nourishment from his victims' plump veins. Tom apparated to the far end of the fallen tree and the vampire was surprised again. A boy of his age had no right to be dabbling in adult magic. He planned to punish him for it.

Tom's strategy was _death by a thousand cuts_ , but with restraint. He only needed to slow McQuillan down. From his current range of thirty yards, he struck again at the vampire's right leg, so McQuillan shook it, determined to show Tom that his magic was having no effect.

McQuillan could manoeuvre at great speed, but rarely needed to. Tom, with no practical experience of battling vampires, was not expecting it; he heard pounding feet, just before he was thumped backwards. Rolling into a protective ball, his body struck an exposed tree root, knocking the wind from him. In an instant, McQuillan had Tom's arms locked above his head. He could no longer see his wand, but guessed it was somewhere in the undergrowth, out of reach.

' _Ye_ gave a good account laddie. I'm grateful, truly I am. However, it's time for you to sleep the sleep. The kind you _dinnae_ wake from. _Ach_ , don't be scared _wee barra_ , it happens to us all someday.' McQuillan looked around at the featureless woodland. 'No' much of a place to breathe _yer_ last, but maybe it's _hoot ye_ deserve.'

McQuillan unlocked his jaw and opened his mouth wide, revealing two rows of black teeth and furred incisors. In a flash he was tumbling forward; Herbie Peniakoff dismounted his broom and sprinted over to Tom.

'You still with us, mate?'

Tom nodded, he could barely squeeze the words out. 'Careful, he's fast.'

McQuillan had vanished. Herbie, the end of his wand glowing, patrolled the fallen tree trunk; while Tom attempted to regain his breath and warn the auror.

'I reckon we've seen the last of that feller,' Herbie said, stowing his wand.

Tom tried to shout, but it was just a wheeze.

'He's not gone; he's still here. I can feel it.'

'What _d'you_ say?' Peniakoff asked, coming closer.

McQuillan reared up from behind the trunk, swiped at Herbie and sent him somersaulting into the bushes. McQuillan roared in triumph; they were throwing themselves at him now! Tom had no time to find his wand, so he clasped both hands and raised them to his forehead. Muttering an incantation, he cast his spell wand-free; as McQuillan cantered towards him on all fours.

'Tempus tardium.'

Tom had developed magical techniques, long before he was aware that wands existed. The spell was familiar, but hazardous, since the present was fused with the past. More experienced wizards than himself, had disappeared into the folds of time: never to return. Tom appeared to vanish, but this was just an illusion; every action was now operating at a fraction of its normal speed, except for his own. McQuillan was reduced to a gradually moving statue. Tom approached him and kicked at his shin, but it took over a minute for the vampire to tip forward and hit the ground in slow motion.

'Lumos.' Tom's wand tip illuminated and now he could see it, buried beneath a carpet of ivy.

'Accio wand' and it span wildly towards his open palm. He turned as McQuillan was mid-roll, throwing up leaves and drifting chips of bark. Tom's breathing had steadied and now he shouted for maximum delivery.

'Conscientium totalis!' The vampire was knocked unconscious and his roll gradually flattened, while he ploughed through the undergrowth.

Tom broke the spell slowing time and McQuillan's body flared, rolling violently before it slumped into a pile. Tom limped over to the vampire, while his lower back began to stiffen. He pointed his wand skywards and a spume of green plasma tore through the tree canopy; it illuminated the sky with a flaming skull and writhing serpent. Sheldrick should understand the meaning. Tom leaned against the trunk — wand ready — in case the body of McQuillan stirred.

Sheldrick was not far off and Tom waited less than ten minutes before he heard the rumble of a cart. Pulled by a shabby mule, it carried an iron box the size of an oven, chains, manacles and a heap of sackcloth.

'You got him?' Sheldrick asked, on tenterhooks.

'Over there.' Tom nodded. 'You used my friend as bait,' but he was too tired to argue any further.

Sheldrick unpacked the chains and manacles, laying them across the cart's floor.

'Your friend _what_ spies on you?' He let the information sink in.

'Give us an 'and boy!' They bundled the body onto the cart and Sheldrick applied manacles to McQuillan's wrists and ankles, then secured them to a steel bar. He undid the clasps around the box, which had one hole for the head. The inside was lined with short wooden stakes, pointing towards the captive. Sheldrick grinned at him.

'Stops their kind moving round, see? Your mate'll be fine. Just a teaspoon or two of Cathbad's Drowsy Milk at work, that's all. He'll wake up soon enough and won't remember _nothing_.'

Sheldrick locked the iron box, with McQuillan's head laying to one side in the cart, then covered everything in sackcloth.

'Well, _I_ got a way to go tonight. We'll catch up to share the coin, once delivery's been made. Stay out o' trouble!' This made Sheldrick cackle. He smacked the mule's rump and the cart rumbled towards Hogsmeade.

Tom would need to make some adjustments. Despite only being twelve, his conduct was professional and he always saw a task through to conclusion. Gary was still unconscious, but Herbie was groaning and sleep talking. Tom placed the tip of his wand on Herbie's right temple and allowed his eyeballs to roll back; he drew out a silver thread from Herbie's memory and with a flick of his wand, destroyed it. Then he drew another from his own temple. Concocting a false memory needed steadfast concentration, protected by a shell of warm and blissful tranquillity. Only those looking carefully, would detect the rough edges in Tom's effort.

In the false memory, Herbie had fought McQuillan valiantly, then blasted the vampire to dust. Tom placed the false memory on Herbie's left temple and drew it in, pulling his wand from the other side. Tom glanced at Gary; he was safe enough here and usefully, he'd reinforce Herbie's version of events. Tom pointed his wand at the sky and sent an inferno of red sparks through the trees. They detonated with an almighty explosion, which could be heard many miles away. Just to be sure, he lit the upper branches of several trees; they would see the flames from Hogwarts and send out a party to investigate.

Tom lowered himself carefully onto his broom, then kicked it into flight. He broke through the canopy, narrowly avoiding the burning treetops.

Gary, awake during the whole spectacle, watched him go; he was drowsy and rooted to the spot, but unconscious? Not for more than an hour.

Tom skirted the castle grounds and dismounted on the far side, beside the stone circle. There was a commotion near Merlin's Gate, with staff pointing their broomsticks towards an amber glow on the horizon. Students leaned from windows along the front, while behind, Tom slipped into Hogwarts unseen.


	9. IX: A Scrap of Parchment

**IX - A Scrap of Parchment**

Herbie and Gary were discovered by one of the search parties, sent to explore the burning trees; Gary was carried back, but Herbie insisted on returning under his own steam. Watching a ministry auror limp under Merlin's Gate, was a sobering sight for the enthusiastic crowd. Gary was taken to the hospital wing and kept under observation; while Herbie — accompanied by Professors Wanda Jepson and Leonard Wakenshaw — drew up a chair in Headmaster Dippet's study.

Due to uncertainty about the vampire's fate and Herbie's foggy recollection, the headmaster asked if he might review the auror's memory? Herbie agreed, presuming there was nothing to hide, but he remembered little of the event. In truth, he was dreading inspection by the headmaster. To the outside world, Herbie was a success; in reality he made mistakes often, but was better than most at covering them up. Three-quarters of his reputation was built on carefully managed bluff; however, the auror was far too tired to complain. _Let them find out that I blew it._

Dippet extracted the memory, added it to his pewter pensieve and invited the other teachers to join him. Herbie watched and reflected on how well his visit had gone up to this point. They were probably witnessing the vampire ravaging a school child, while he lay nearby like an ornament. Herbie silently sighed and prepared to face the music.

Satisfied they'd experienced the true version of events, the sombre teaching staff turned to Herbie. Then broke into smiles and head shakes of disbelief; Dippet's eyes were bulging baubles of delight.

'Congratulations, sir. Truly remarkable!' Dippet looked to the others for confirmation and they echoed his sentiments.

'We're all greatly indebted to you, greatly indebted.' Herbie's hand was energetically pumped by each of the three, while his blank expression gave way to the more familiar, really-it-was-nothing smile. The one he kept standing by, in case events accidentally fell into place.

Herbie Peniakoff left the following Saturday in a blaze of triumphant glory. Hufflepuff made a banner and hung it over the main entrance. Ravenclaw composed a celebration song and assembled a ragtag choir to perform it. Slytherin bought and engraved a commemorative cup and Gryffindor presented a photograph of the school and pupils: waving, blowing kisses and cheering. All were dedicated to Hogwarts' _Lord Protector_ and signed by the head boy and girl.

Herbie paused and thanked the crowd following him to Merlin's Gate. He felt completely at ease and his heart swelled with pride: both deeply-unfamiliar sensations. Somewhere in the dimmest corner of his mind, lurked a crumb of doubt. That at any moment he would wake from this blissful dream and discover that actually; he had blown it after all.

Gary recovered within a day and his classmates were happy to see him back in lessons. Even Dippet tried to overcome his distaste for Gary. Tried, but failed.

During the final weeks of March, just before the term ended, spring finally arrived. On the morning of their introductory lesson to _care of magical creatures_ , a tent of blue sky greeted the first form and the scent of budding flowers drifted across the school lawns. Care of magical creatures was offered as an O.W.L. option for third formers at Hogwarts, but it was traditional to hold introductory lessons in earlier years. It prevented options being snap decisions, when the time came to choose, but they were also an opportunity to step outside after a long winter. Popular with staff and students alike, these lessons also signalled the winding-down process as the holidays approached.

Silvanus Kettleburn, was Hogwarts' resident care of magical creatures professor, but despite Tom's attempt to question older pupils about him, they just laughed.

'You'll find out,' 'I hope you've notified your next of kin,' or as Gary was promised: 'No, no, I'm sure you'll be fine.'

The first form waited nervously in front of the Firebolt Gate; high cloudlets were strewn above and the memory of winter was already beginning to fade.

Headmaster Dippet left the main teaching block, accompanied by Professor Kettleburn. Hands clasped behind his back, he was listening politely to Kettleburn's rambling, but his thoughts were firmly elsewhere. Vivian — standing behind Gary — whispered in his ear.

'Kettleburn's on probation for a fifth time. Seems a second form girl was bitten by a manticore, which he encouraged her to pet.'

Professor Kettleburn had a mechanical right foot from the mid-shin down and gripped his scrolls with a stump where his left hand used to be. He addressed the group.

'Welcome, all of you on this beautiful morning, _ah,_ students of the first form. I have a treat for you — a real rarity — which is on a diplomatic mission of cooperation between us and the United States. We have, _ah,_ a griffin currently grazing in the Forbidden Forest.' Kettleburn punctuated his sentences with regular pauses, as if he was about to sneeze.

Dippet appeared serene on the surface, but inside his enthusiasm slumped. A griffin was not the kind of creature to be trifled with; antagonise it and you had a stone-cold killer on your hands. Despite this, Kettleburn appeared unfazed by the prospect. With fingers beating a rhythm on his generous pot belly and black beard quivering in the breeze; he couldn't have looked more at ease. The man wore a mortar board every day, tipped back at an angle, like an easy-going, academic adventurer. Kettleburn had no death wish, per se, just a poor appreciation of risk.

'Let's, _ah,_ be off.' He pointed directly behind them, then stormed through their ranks towards the Forbidden Forest. Dippet would focus on other things this morning and worry about any mishaps when they returned.

Half a mile into the forest, two vast granite walls blocked their path. A stream tumbled overhead, where the two cliff faces formed a corner and dashed against the exposed rock. The drop pool below was lined with green moss, waist high bracken and silver birch saplings. Kettleburn picked his way around the pool and asked them to wait in silence; he expected the griffin to be close by, since they were known to enjoy bathing in drop pools. Twenty long minutes passed, before Kettleburn appeared on the brow of a hill to the south. He tossed a raw chicken carcass behind him and everyone waited, before there was spontaneous cooing from the students.

The body of a lion padded down the path behind Kettleburn. More than twice the height and length of a standard beast, it had the head of an eagle: with a sober expression, but alert and darting eyes. Its curved beak nipped at the chicken and after several sharp neck extensions, it swallowed the bird whole. The creature studied the group warily, but continued advancing, interested to see whether more chicken was available. Kettleburn motioned for the group to come closer and held another bird out to encourage the griffin. It snatched the carcass while he was facing the other way and Kettleburn was lucky to hang on to his remaining hand.

'The griffin is a majestic creature. One of the earliest to appear in magical texts and predating most of our, _ah,_ accepted history. A combination of eagle and lion, their legendary strength is matched only by their keen intelligence. Often assumed to be sly and manipulative, I've always found them approachable and friendly.'

Distaste crossed the griffin's regal profile and its eyes narrowed. The creature was displeased with Kettleburn's patronising summary.

Its mantle feathers had the colour and lustre of polished wood, which lightened to tawny fur covering its flanks and rear paws. Its forelimbs were clawed, with talons the length of a wand and tucked flush along its back, was an enormous pair of wings.

'They're capable of flight over long distances, but never mistake the griffin for some docile workhorse. They, _ah_ , do not carry passengers. The griffin is attracted to puzzles, riddles, mathematics and despite understanding many forms of communication, they don't indulge in conversation for the sake of it. They live to be challenged, but never take the challenge lightly. You will in all likelihood, lose and the price is a forfeit of their design. I myself, lost a hand to one, though I assure you, the fault was entirely mine.'

This pacified the griffin, which was diverted by their presence, rather than threatened.

'The griffin has an even greater passion than puzzling. Gold and treasure! It's not fully understood how they find treasure. Heightened senses, sight, smell, touch? No one knows. What we do know is that if something valuable is lost or hidden; they will find it. Then hoard and protect it against, _ah,_ all threats.'

The griffin took a deep breath, turned its head majestically and unfurled its wings: flapping in display several times, before folding them back.

The beaten air took out half-a-dozen of the closest students, blowing them backwards off their feet.

'Careful now,' Kettleburn warned. Inappropriately amused by the sight of so many floored children.

Eudora was in heaven; the creature had looked at her several times and she felt an instant bond. She could spend all day staring at magical creatures. The down between its interlocked feathers floated away like dandelion seeds. Liquid black pupils, rimmed with speckled ochre, dilated and contracted as it surveyed the group. Eudora knew then — as she'd always suspected — that her future lay with animals; she wished the third form was starting right now, so that magical creatures would feature weekly. The griffin stepped forward and everyone shuffled back, except Tom and Eudora.

Tom maintained eye contact and the griffin was intrigued. It stood proudly before him, neck extended; increasing its height and drawing in Tom's scent. Eudora remained alongside and now the creature's presence could be fully appreciated; it was the size of an elephant she'd once seen at Dublin City Zoo. The griffin's hot breath surrounded them as the beast snorted, then it turned and cantered over the hill.

The griffin was out of sight for a minute or so, before it returned: alarming the students with a thundering gallop. Was it charging the group? Thankfully, no. The griffin drew up in front of Tom, opened its beak and dropped a single galleon at his feet. Tom picked the galleon up and retreated, putting it in his pocket. They stared at one another for an uncomfortable period of time, before finally, the griffin unfurled its colossal wings and took flight. Its talons brushing several pupils' heads, as it swept into the canopy. Several more boys and girls, went down like ninepins in the backdraught, before Kettleburn joined Tom and Eudora.

'You two have the makings of a talented pair of magical carers. I'd, _ah_ , stake my reputation on it.'

The class returned to Hogwarts, thrilled by their encounter. Gary was chatting to Vivian about Tom

'...and what a surprise. Tom Riddle's a natural at care of magical creatures too.' He spoke with no trace of bitterness; the class was proud of Tom and Eudora, plus they were grateful too. Grateful Kettleburn was delivering them back to school, with all their limbs intact. ... _ah_...

As the end of term approached, lessons became less formal and some were replaced by library periods. Gary was lurking in the cloisters surrounding the clock courtyard. Watching the sun warming the rocks below. He was thinking about lunch, Hogwarts and home; with both hands buried deep in his pockets.

Eudora had also missed the library period, which was unusual; the morning sun had stirred something inside her. School work was now complete and soon she would be home. A new thought had bubbled to the surface too: that she would miss Hogwarts over the holidays. This term had been so different to her first. She'd felt nothing but relief, trudging through snow to the Hogwarts Express at Christmas. Now she had friends and good ones too. Eudora was certain she knew what to do with her life; too early for firm decisions, but the future held promise, rather than anxiety. This morning was an opportunity to breathe in the crisp, Highland air and for once, allow herself a degree of satisfaction. Then she saw Gary Box.

He heard footsteps, turned and saw Eudora before she could take another route.

'Eudora. Not like you to miss a library period.'

'My work's all done and I thought the sunshine, you know. It's so beautiful.'

'Me _also_ , except the part about work being done. Park up.' He nodded at the space beside him. 'Pretty. All this.'

'It is,' Eudora replied, touching her hair. Briefly thinking it was a compliment; before she lowered her hand without drawing attention to it.

'Looking forward to home?'

Eudora said what she was thinking.

'Yes, but I'm going to miss being here.'

'Exactly what I was thinking before you came along.'

Eudora smiled, Gary had this way of surprising her. You thought he was all talk and show, then he said things that set him apart.

'Tom's the same I think.'

Eudora stiffened at the mention of Tom.

'I shouldn't say so, but he sleep talks. Not loudly, but he's in the next bed to me. Tom thinks of Hogwarts as home. Had a rough childhood y'know, but you've not heard that from me.'

'Rough how?' Eudora couldn't help herself.

'Grew up in an orphanage, a muggle orphanage and never met his parents. They left him when he _were_ a baby. Tough place too.'

Eudora was shocked. Tom was clever — brilliant in fact — charming and all this time, he'd had no support or encouragement. You'd never know to meet him.

'He wants to know where he came from, now he's here. Tom never says it, but like I said, he talks in his sleep. I keep an eye out, because few others have in the past. I tell you though, he lives in that library. Plus he writes a diary every night.'

Surprise swept across Eudora's face and she was relieved they were both looking in the same direction.

'I keep a diary,' Eudora admitted, 'I've never told anyone that before.' Empathy for Tom, produced a physical, burning sensation in her chest.

'Something he's talked about recently in his sleep — don't mention it to the others — but I can trust you. A place called The Chamber of Secrets. I know nothing of it, or where it's found, but I get the feeling it holds a key to who his parents are, or were. I owe him, he looks out for me: more than people know.'

Eudora's eyes scanned back and forth. It held some kind of meaning, but she didn't know Tom well enough to make sense of it.

'Helping Tom trace his parents, would go some way to repaying the debt.' Gary continued to stare at the distant peaks.

'I've got an auntie in Ireland, a research fellow at Trinity's Phoenix Institute, in Dublin. I can send her an owl and ask about The Chamber of Secrets: say it's a class project?'

Gary turned to her. 'Would you?'

'Of course.' Eudora nodded enthusiastically.

'You're a good person, you know that?'

'No... I probably don't.'

They continued to stare at the landscape, comfortable, despite the awkwardness of being so frank.

Eudora returned to her dorm after Gary left, composed a quick note to her aunt, then hurried to the owlery. After attaching the scroll just above Faust's claw, she took the communal leather glove on a chain and encouraged the heavy bird onto it. Faust scanned the horizon to find his bearings, then launched himself through an unglazed window, disappearing into the mist flooding the loch's surface. Eudora breathed deeply, satisfied she was helping Tom and that one day, he might learn of her assistance.

* * *

On the final Monday of term, Eudora rose early. Unused to behaving covertly, she was convinced that her every move was being watched. She'd checked the owlery each morning since sending her message, wanting to avoid delivery during breakfast. Questions might be asked. It was a mild, overcast morning, without a breath of wind, as if time were standing still across the surrounding hills. Her pulse raced when she reached the topmost stair and saw her owl grooming his feathers. She removed the note and hurried back to Ravenclaw, since it was still too early for breakfast.

The writing was tiny, but thorough; typical of her auntie. She summarised in paragraphs, when a sentence would do. Finola had identified a book which might help: _Legend Regulation in Academia: Separating Fact from Fiction_ , by Percy Benwell LeJeune. Her aunt had then checked with the portrait of Lady Kathleen Freeth, who divided her time between the Grand Staircase at Eudora's school and the library at Trinity. _Hogwarts has a copy of the book._ _Lucky us! Hope the class project's a rip-roaring success. Don't forget my haggis! Miss you and kiss kiss, Auntie Nola xxx_.

Eudora had concocted no plan, other than to spend every free moment in the library until the end of term. By Wednesday she was calculating how late to stay on Friday, before joining the Hogwarts Express. Emotionally, Eudora was approaching the quietly-desperate stage.

She was staring out of the window, at groups wandering across the school grounds and came to the conclusion that it had all been a stupid idea from the start. Then Tom entered the library, so she sat upright and rehearsed what to say.

Tom tipped a dozen scrolls onto his usual desk, then returned with several books he was keen to rule out. Much of his time was spent this way: ruling information out, rather than in. He was used to the disappointment it brought and refused to be dragged down; Tom was planning to be here for at least seven years, so it was a matter of persistence. Success would come in small measures, when you least expected it. Then a shadow cast over the desk, interrupting his train of thought.

Eudora appeared startled, rather than the casual _I happened to be walking past_ look she was aiming for. Tom's eyes were piercing and momentarily, her plan flew out the window.

'Eudora?'

He remembered her name and she relaxed.

'I'm doing reading. I'm reading something.' _Oh, he hasn't asked. So why am I telling him?_

'Me too, what are you reading?'

'My Auntie Finola is a research fellow at The Phoenix Institute and she asked me to look over a book here at Hogwarts.' Eudora showed him the outsized edition, cloth bound with a leather spine.

He nodded indifferently.

'She's working on a paper about legends in academia and wanted me to check on this place called…' Eudora pretended it was so unimportant, she'd already forgotten. '... _The Chamber of Secrets_ at Hogwarts.' Even though it was said matter-of-factly, Tom's guard went up.

He said nothing, but studied Eudora for signs of deception; in his experience, coincidence was rare. Understanding more about The Chamber of Secrets, had coincidentally been his goal for the last six weeks. Salazar Slytherin founded the secret chamber, though information was scant, to put it mildly. What intrigued Tom, was Salazar Slytherin's fluency in parseltongue: a form of communication between snakes and their serpent cousins. Tom instantly saw a link between his patch of serpent scales, dreams featuring hunting snakes and the hissing communication he understood. It was obvious that the hissed vowels and consonants were a language, but he had no recollection of ever learning it. An _heir to Slytherin_ was frequently mentioned; a person to escort the lost and voiceless, along their path to liberation. Instinct assured him that he was that heir. Somehow his destiny was linked to all these unrelated facts, but he was unable to explain how or why.

Tom wondered whether Eudora had accessed his diary, but that was impossible. With defences designed to baffle the finest minds at Hogwarts, she presented no realistic threat. Perhaps it was his destiny to follow a path of enlightenment, guided by another? Destiny — after all — often operated in an unpredictable manner. There were forces at work here, far beyond his understanding, so the best course of action might be to encourage her. For now.

'I'm interested in Hogwarts legend too.' Tom paused and pretended to feel uneasy.

'Unfortunately, I never got to meet my family.' He let the information hang there in its raw state, before continuing.

'Since I've been here, I think of Hogwarts as my home, so it's only natural that I try to understand more about it.' He could sense her body language adjust; fighting an urge to comfort him.

'I can let you borrow this after. I just have to write out a section for my auntie. No more than twenty minutes.'

'That's kind of you.'

Relief enveloped Eudora like a warm glove.

Tom watched as she returned to her desk. This was useful, he was sure of that, but there must be a motive; why would she approach him bearing information, he'd been trying to find for months? What was she up to and more importantly, was she operating alone?

As he waited for Eudora to return, Tom juggled several theories, before settling on the most likely. Gary would say it was because: _she's sweet_ _on you_. Often looking over and attempting to hide it. Whenever he proposed anything in muggle studies, she was always the first to agree. Tom wasn't Gary, but thinking like him did have its advantages.

The magic responsible for his patch of serpent scales, was powerful and steeped in risk. More powerful than any teacher at Hogwarts would dare suspect. The Chamber of Secrets was contacting him through a third party; it was assisting him and this girl? This girl was the chamber's messenger.

Even as a young boy at Wool's, he knew he was destined for a higher station in life; not so much arrogance, as the belief that he was born for a purpose. Eventually, his abilities would be recognised and his rise through the ranks would begin. Eudora posed no threat, so perhaps she was an asset in disguise?

Tom took the book when she returned and put it to one side, thanking her. He flashed a smile and with a book held modestly to her chest; she smiled back. Then Eudora rushed for the doors, in case anything went wrong and ruined the moment.

When he was satisfied she wasn't coming back, Tom opened the book and started to read.

Leaving day was the usual muddle of trunks, owl hoots, lost toads and rats circling inside their travel cages. People threaded around one another with building urgency, since _The Hogwarts Express waits for no student_. Eudora left breakfast early, allowing plenty of time to collect her bits and bobs. She'd packed the evening before; always preferring to clear her mind of petty anxieties, before a journey. Her path was blocked by Tom.

'Morning,' he smiled again.

'Hello.'

'Could you do me a favour?'

Eudora nodded eagerly.

'Betty wanted to send me a manuscript, for the muggle studies assignment. I forgot to give her my address and I've not seen her since. Could you pass it on?'

'Of course.' Eudora was happy to help.

He handed her the slip of parchment. She smiled automatically and passed Tom before stopping several stairs up.

'Have a good holiday, Tom.'

'You too.'

Back in her dorm, Eudora had to wait a few minutes for Rita Wallace to drag her trunk down the stairs. Now alone, she opened the slip and repeated the address in her head. _Tom Riddle, Wool's House, Wharf Street, Deptford. SE8._ She noticed that it didn't mention Wool's was an orphanage and presumed that was deliberate. Perhaps he was ashamed to tell Betty? They usually worked together in muggle studies, while she'd been lumped with Brian Downer. Betty was often smiling and pushing the hair back from her face, making frequent, but brief eye contact. Eudora had been burning to know what they were talking about, but now she knew something about Tom, which Betty didn't. He'd even told her himself. After a furtive glance at the door, she flipped open her small case and burrowed to the bottom. Eudora unrolled a towel to reveal her diary and copied the address onto the back page; then she replaced the diary and smoothed her skirt, returning the slip of parchment to her pocket. She'd give it to Betty on the train, hopefully before Tom had an opportunity to talk to her.

Tom wouldn't be roaming the carriages; however, despite Gary saving a place for him. He was watching the train depart from a corner window in the library and revelling in the peace and quiet. Birdsong from a nearby rowan tree, was accompanied by the perfume of its early blossom. Over the previous few days, he'd survived on only a few hours sleep a night. Research into The Chamber of Secrets had been riveting, so returning to bed, he was unable to sleep as competing ideas fought for his attention. The book Eudora suggested had been vital to him making progress. It named and referenced witnesses to the chamber's formation, its precious few visitors and numerous events which had occurred within its walls. Cross-checking led to further anecdotes, incantations and more.

Tom decided to stay an extra two days at Hogwarts. There were twenty or so other students joining him, who for one reason or another, would not be returning home until the summer break. He was not alone, but unlike the others: he hadn't asked for permission. Keeping a low profile would be essential.

Over the holidays, most staff took the opportunity to catch up on relatives, due to Hogwarts' remote location. The enchanted oil lamps were extinguished and those pupils remaining, were moved to the Gryffindor dormitories. Slytherin was now deserted.

Tom cast a spell: _primulus classicum._ It was active throughout Slytherin, the library and the corridors between. If anyone triggered the spell, chimes would sound in Tom's ear. These would increase in volume as the person approached; giving him plenty of time to melt into the background. Tom's area in the library also appeared empty to anyone scanning the room. Around his desk, he disabled the charm which prevented eating in the library; there was simply no time to spare for meal breaks. Tom had visited the kitchens below the Great Hall on the last night of term and helped himself to cold provisions: bread and whatever else he could find. _Not stealing_ his conscience assured him, since he was a Hogwarts student and all he'd done was overstay his welcome by a few days.

The express left Hogsmeade at 9.30am. Around four-thirty in the afternoon, a stiff and aching Tom stretched upwards, cracking the bones in his shoulders. He replaced his current book with another in the pile. Several pages in, he knew this was not what he'd been searching for, but one of those happy accidents that occur when you're thorough. Several hours later and every line was making his scalp crawl. He'd discovered a medieval translation of an earlier Babylonian text, concerning magical access, called: _The Map of the Mind_. Undoubtedly dark in nature, it outlined training and techniques for those chosen to _bridge the divide:_ an imperceptible division between magical creation and magical performance. Then Tom turned the page and the book ended; deflated, he stared at the empty flyleaf. The volume spoke of dark runes, dark marks and transfiguration into dark creatures and beasts. Of raising and controlling the dead, preparing for eternity and much more besides. It spoke of what, but failed to mention how, so Tom pushed the book aside in frustration.

He ripped off a hunk of bread and tried some cheese: now hard and transparent; satisfaction from food, was currently the least of his worries. The Map of the Mind was highly significant, so he must continue searching for useful information about it. The Chamber of Secrets would come later in the sequence. With The Map of the Mind at his disposal, finding the chamber would surely be an easier task? In fact, the more he thought about it, the more his conclusions dovetailed neatly. The Map of the Mind was an essential step to unlocking The Chamber of Secrets; he was sure of it. Tom sat back, rubbed, then rested his eyelids and was dragged downwards into sleep.

 _A toothless lion yawned, baring its gums, before moving aside to let him pass. The palace's marble floor was cold and smooth, allowing his body to slither without friction; while his forked tongue probed the evening air for scent and micro-movement. A man with his head bowed, in a silk tunic and sandals decorated with gold braid, turned and pleaded with him. Tom wrapped his body around the man, feeling him struggle, before constricting; every muscle stretched and taut, he felt bones in the man's chest collapse. Before death, the doomed man offered him a name: Bel Awil-ili._

Tom jolted awake; his cheek resting on the cool paper of an open book.

He wrote the name down and as darkness fell across the library, Tom vowed he would unlock the dream's meaning, before returning to Wool's.

Snatching the bare minimum of sleep, he spent the next day and-a-half in the library, developing a detailed profile of Bel Awil-ili: a man who collected dark arts from across the ancient world, with the aim of acquiring unparalleled riches. He was struck down by one of his supposed allies: the _Rabisu_ ; a powerful demon so hideous, a coward could not survive its gaze.

 _The book is more than an entity in its own right, so one must look within. When borne with ambitious purpose, the Rabisu will be summoned. Essential to unlocking that which is unknown, it may on a whim, imprison one's soul with no hope of release. Foiled by salt that prevents passage on The Road of Bone, it deals only in half-truths. All but the bravest scholars this Pouncer encounters, will part with their sanity._

 _Satisfy the Rabisu and the quest will be known. Understand the book and those chosen, will be delivered_.

Tom must have read the passage ten times and could think only of Salazar Slytherin. The myth and legend surrounding him, the lack of concrete evidence, the whispers of dark magic.

It was five-past-six on a murky Sunday morning. Birds were singing, but it was too dull for their hearts to be in it. Tom had to catch the train to King's Cross: just a regular service, but if he missed it, the next was not until the following Wednesday. Parnaby had little interest in Tom's movements, so he wouldn't question the beginning and end of term dates precisely. Still, Tom didn't want to push the man too far.

He gathered his parchment notes and bundled them into a scroll, so he could study on the train. Then he returned all the books and removed any evidence of him being there. Tom slipped through the side entrance by the greenhouses, passed under Merlin's Gate and walked down the hill to Hogsmeade, carrying his battered suitcase. He was wealthy enough to afford a new one, but why advertise wealth unless it was absolutely necessary? The sun finally made an appearance halfway down the hill, with shafts illuminating patches of the valley floor. Tom was on the edge of discovery; there was still a distance to go, but chiselling away always reaped rewards. If you were patient enough.

* * *

It was early evening when Tom's train pulled into King's Cross and he left by the main entrance at a leisurely pace, despite being two days late. Crossing the Euston Road, he was aware of a change in atmosphere on the streets; tension and fear had electrified the city. Tom bought a copy of the Evening News from a street vendor, who tucked it under his arm. Then he caught a tram on the Gray's Inn Road and flicked through the headlines, before examining the detail. The upper deck was thick with cigarette smoke: which gathered as the tram stopped to take on passengers, then swept backwards through the open windows when they moved forward again.

Just north of the river, the service terminated, but Tom was buried in his paper. The conductor shouted up. 'All change please! All change!' So he grabbed his suitcase, crossed The Strand to The Embankment, then took the Hungerford Footbridge at Charing Cross. During his half-hour wait at Waterloo, darkness fell across the city; Tom tried to read under the electric street lighting, but it was too dim to make out the words. The next tram to Deptford stopped every few-hundred yards, giving him enough time to finish the paper. The United Kingdom and France, were on the brink of war with Germany and Italy.

How this escaped his notice at Hogwarts, was disturbing. What would it mean to him personally? He was too young for combat and besides, talk was of a short war once the fighting began. Being called up was also unlikely, unless the war continued for many years. Would it affect his ability to attend school? That was the real concern and brought with it an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. Surely they couldn't take Hogwarts from him now, could they? Germany had invaded the rest of Czechoslovakia and Italy had invaded Albania; in what appeared to be the formation of a European superstate. Tom was no expert as far as politics and national affairs were concerned, but even a cheerful optimist would assume the worst.

He searched for a commentary or editorial, to explain what might happen next. The Munich Agreement was in tatters, the Prime Minister was now friendless and the cupboard was bare. In fact, the whole country was caught blinking in the headlights of a vast steamroller; intent on flattening any democracy which stood in its way. Tom's stomach tightened further as he faced the terrifying prospect of losing Hogwarts. Glancing around the upper deck, there was the same atmosphere he'd experienced on arrival. People were staring inwards, robbed of their usual certainty. He needed to get to Wool's, when only hours earlier; he'd dreaded returning there. Tom had to admit — disappointing though it was — that Wool's was still a home of sorts.

The orphanage was in darkness, except for the odd light burning, when he arrived. Tom let himself through the back door, beside the kitchen. A Victorian key was still wedged in the canopy rafter, which Cook left there for sneaking in late. He would find Kit in the morning. The darkness felt comforting and his lack of sleep over the previous week, caught up with him; he didn't bother to undress and just wrapped the top blanket around his collapsed body.

Tom did catch up with Kit at breakfast, who smiled and nodded for him to come over, but they hardly spoke. Kit's attention was firmly fixed elsewhere. One of the eldest boys, Derrick Gwilliam and he were in heated conversation about proposed troop movements. There was also a rumour of conscription from the dockers, who were likely to have advance warning of any large-scale mobilisation. Kit hung on Derrick's every word, hardly aware that Tom existed.

The grown-up part of Tom, knew this was to be expected. If a war was fought, people of Kit's age and above would do the fighting; Kit was still a year too young to be called up, but everyone knew that turning a blind eye was practically traditional in the British Army. Wool's was an orphanage, with a limited choice of occupations available to the boys when they left. However, during a war, orphanage boys could be elevated to the status of citizens; with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make their country proud. War was a career to young men like Kit: the chance to travel and improve their lot in life.

After breakfast, Tom returned to his room and considered signing up for duties at the docks. Kit knocked and let himself in; thankfully he was in a lighter mood.

'Tommy! Glad to have you back.' His usual smile had returned. 'Sorry about earlier. I've had time to think and… Well, I've just been wrapped up in all this war business. Reg Vickers, you know — up the Territorials in Blackheath — told us conscription is on the way. It's really happening.'

Kit spread his arms, as if this news should fill Tom and everyone else with joy.

'Listen, I've got this errand to run at the Foreign Cattle Market; meet me on the high road at one, outside The Prince Arthur?'

'I'll be there.' Tom replied.

Kit was straight through the door.

His voice echoed from further up the corridor. 'Really good to have you back, Tom.'

Kit walked with purpose across the Greenwich High Road; straight backed and proud, he wanted to shout about the coming war. The sun was scorching and the roads dusty from recent high winds. Weaving between hot cars, he joined Tom and they climbed Greenwich Hill; some of it backwards, as Kit pointed out anti-aircraft batteries springing up around the docks.

'It's a good job I'm not a spy.'

'Don't even joke about it, Tom.'

There was a battery at the top of the hill, parallel with the observatory. Outside a soldier was smoking a cigarette, pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

'Jim Welsh!' Kit cracked his hand into a firm shake.

'Trevelyan. When're you joining us?'

Welsh had a thin moustache and cupped his cigarette, as if smoking beside live ammunition was a bad idea. He looked Tom up and down, unable to hide his disinterest.

'This here's Tom, practically a brother to me.'

Welsh nodded with the minimum of effort; he'd already decided Tom was not worth a handshake.

'Show us round, Jim? Tom _can't_ 'ardly wait to hear about ack-acks _._ '

Jim Welsh gave them a whistle-stop tour. He made the business of anti-aircraft, sound more complicated than it was; partly showing off to Tom, but mostly for Kit's benefit. The deployed gun was encircled by sandbags, so only the operators' helmets could been seen from outside. The 3.7 inch, heavy gun could fire twenty rounds a minute and there were seven in the crew. Kit's expression had never been more serious, absorbing every detail that Welsh reeled off.

When they left, Welsh saw them to the sandbag entrance and gripped Kit's shoulder with authority.

'You'll be up here soon. Count on it.' Kit couldn't have been more delighted. The entire return journey, he allowed his excitement to spill over. Tom wasn't sure why Kit was so desperate to prove himself; to a world which cared so little for the ordinary man, let alone a parentless boy. _Their's not to reason why..._

He consoled himself that at the top of Greenwich Hill, Kit would be out of harm's way. From what Tom had read in the paper, any country neighbouring Germany, should immediately start evacuating its citizens.

On Saturday morning, Tom left Wool's early; he'd mentioned casually around the orphanage, that there were shifts at the Foreign Cattle Market to be had. Tom was responsible for two six-year-olds, billeted in a nearby room, so he got them washed and dressed, then slipped out. Many of the dockers struggled with reading and writing, so Tom often tallied loads and had a reputation for never making mistakes. It was not unusual for him to work all day Saturday, contributing to his nest egg: money which the boys earned and set aside. Since reaching twelve, Tom was viewed as an independent entity and able to come and go as he pleased. A portion of his earnings contributed to bed and board and since he'd been independent as a youngster, he was left to his own devices. At sixteen he would be encouraged to leave, but some like Kit stayed on. Working for the orphanage, helping the boys, or liaising with local companies that needed cheap, under-the-counter labour. Tom had grander plans.

Hogwarts awakened something in Tom: the ability to see beyond his humdrum existence. He had exceptional abilities, but always kept them under wraps. Hogwarts gave him the courage of conviction. If you wanted to get somewhere in life, it didn't come to you; you went to it. One of the reasons he was blessed with magical ability — from his perspective — was so he could share money with those who deserved a fairer slice. Which meant of course, Tom had to take it off those who did not deserve it and so far he'd amassed considerable sums of money: both conventional and magical. It often surprised him as he wandered London's streets, how ordinary people found acquiring money so difficult. He had more than he was ever likely to need, but hardly cared about luxury and status; his driving obsession was independence and an end to his reliance on others.

He had three goals this holiday. One: to test more effective cloaks for his magical activities in the muggle world; recent research into The Map of the Mind, had unearthed numerous methods of dark cloaking. His attempts before joining Hogwarts, were probably successful, but they lacked sophistication; simply shifting _the trace_ onto a non-magical boy at Wool's and patching over his daily activities. Two: to establish a base outside Wool's. He needed a secure and private place, that was his alone. Three: he would take Jack Yardley for every penny he had. Preferably, before war complicated matters.

Tom had kept an eye on properties in Greenwich since returning. The current trend was to build houses in the suburbs and as a result, there was a surplus of inner-city properties. He was of course, unable to buy a house: being far too young and lacking the necessary financial history. It was also essential that no paper trail led back to him. The plan was bold, but as he often reminded himself, that was why it would probably work. His intention was to buy outright, using cash.

Tom stood at the corner of Croom's Hill, looking south towards St Alfege Church. Across the street a milkman tending his handcart, stopped to rinse a few empties. He stoked his pipe and took some time to look around. Housewives were choosing vegetables from the trestles outside the grocer's; while two men in flat caps — with hands deep in their pockets — chatted as they watched the world go by. Tom was looking for a candidate. He'd hand delivered a letter, requesting an appointment to view a property on Croom's Hill. That part was easy; now he needed a father. His experiments before breakfast had created a cloak, not so much of invisibility, as non-activity. The hooks and telltale signs of magical practice, would now be suppressed and appear unworthy of attention. This was essential, since he was planning to use the _imperium charm_. It came, as many powerful spells and charms did, with a string of warnings against misuse. He'd tested it on Parnaby that morning and frankly, had expected more of a challenge.

Selecting a father was trickier. He needed a credible and respectable person to act as his mouthpiece.

The appointment was at noon and Tom had been in place for well over an hour. It felt like the plan was unravelling, so he shifted further down Stockwell Street, towards the church. Which was further away from the appointment, so he had ten minutes at most. Tom looked in the church: deserted. Then up and down the nearby streets: no one suitable. He backed towards Greenwich High Road, taking one last look towards the shops, before bumping into someone. A man wearing a chalk-striped, double-breasted suit, fedora and black Oxford shoes. He had a white carnation pinned to his lapel.

'You'll do yourself a mischief, walking backwards like that.' The man placed a hand on Tom's shoulder.

Suspiciously perfect.

'Imperio.' Tom had one hand on the wand inside his jacket and no time to waste. The man hesitated, then nibbled the knuckle of his forefinger.

'Let's go for a walk up Croom's Hill,' Tom pointed across the road.

'Good idea,' the man replied.

'You need to tell me everything about yourself, starting with your full name.'

'Roy Duggan,' he offered his hand to shake.

When they arrived at the property, some way up the hill; Tom was rehearsing the major details of Roy's life. The house— he had learned from the estate agent's guide — was accessible by a passage between two brick buildings, neither of which had windows overlooking the alley. It was possible to walk here, via the park or street and slip along the passage unseen. He considered this more important than its look and feel.

The estate agent — Tony Bagnold from Sheldon & Hayward — was sitting on a low wall with his eyes closed, drinking in the morning sun. He heard his client approaching and stood up; taking Roy Duggan's outstretched palm in both hands and tossing a wink in Tom's direction.

'Shall we?' Tony nodded towards the alley. It was semi-darkness for several moments, before the rear aspect of the house was revealed. Early Victorian, red brick, with a path leading to the back door.

'There's another entrance, accessible from Georgette Place, but the owners come and go through here. For the ease of it.'

Tony Bagnold presented their gloomy surroundings as a convenient feature. The house was dark on the ground floor, but the upper level was bathed in sunshine. The rooms offered clear views of Greenwich Park at the rear and the neighbouring street's back gardens at the front. Cleanish and no obvious damp, it was perfectly adequate, but Tom now had to concentrate and keep the conversation on track.

Roy was a writer: a journalist at The Evening Standard and prone to long periods of isolation, wrestling with his craft. Tom — his son — delivered articles, fetched documents and replaced paper or ink, as required. If Roy needed anything:Tom was there.

'Will you be requiring a mortgage? We do, of course, provide a referral service.' Tony wasn't remotely interested in whether Tom made deliveries or not.

'No,' Roy replied, 'I've inherited a…' Tom couldn't think of the word. '...nest egg from an aunt on my mother's side. The plan is to buy outright.'

Tony Bagnold straightened up. An effortless commission was his for the taking.

They lingered in the front room and back parlour, before finally conducting business as Roy and Tom were about to leave.

'I understand it's on at three-eight-five?'

'Yes sir! Pounds not Guineas, of course.' Tony was terrified this sale might slip away, if he fluffed the final negotiation. Something he'd developed a knack for lately.

'I'll take it.' Roy announced breezily, as if he was buying a piece of fruit.

Tony's eyes wanted to leap from their sockets, but he kept them on a tight pair of reins. 'A wise choice sir. Very wise, if you'll permit me to say? It won't disappoint, I'm sure of that.'

Roy continued.

'I'd prefer to complete the sale as soon as possible. I'm in Glasgow tomorrow.' Tom was freewheeling and nearly suggested Hogwarts instead of Glasgow.

'Can you fetch the forms and meet me here in.' Roy checked his watch. 'Three hours?'

Tony puffed his cheeks several times, calculating his commission.

'Otherwise I can't do anything till July.' Roy was cooling to the idea.

'Doable, sir, very doable. I'll collect the deeds and transfer of ownership papers; the branch manager will need to approve, but I don't see any problems there.' Tony's tongue, nervously dabbed his lower-lip.

This sale — unlike the others — must not be allowed to slip through his fumbling fingers. He'd ring the branch manager — Myles Perry — at home, who was just as desperate to offload this liability-of-a property too. Plus, Myles would be able to assist with any form fudging.

They met three hours later. Tony Bagnold had the deeds and transfer paperwork in a foolscap folder; Duggan had a manilla envelope containing seventy-seven _five jacks_ : folded, five pound notes, supplied by Tom. Or more accurately: Jack Yardley. Roy Duggan gave their permanent address as a terrace in Drumchapel, Glasgow, which was slated for demolition, so any trail leading back to him, would dead-end hundreds of miles away. To succeed, you hoped for the best, but always planned for the worst.

Tony Bagnold licked his fingers and counted the wad of banknotes again. Cash over a bank transfer, was highly unusual, but then so was buying a property in an inner-city, bomb-friendly area. After receipt signatures were exchanged, the deed was handed to Roy for safekeeping; not strictly above board, but Tony's boss — as predicted — was just as keen to close the sale.

Tony and Roy shook hands outside, then went their separate ways. Tom took the keys, deeds and paperwork from Duggan and sent him towards Blackheath; a _confundus charm_ would take care of his lost afternoon. Tom walked around the park for hours, savouring his new neighbourhood and mentally toasting his success. He let himself back in just as the sun was setting and prised up a floorboard: hiding the document folder beneath the floor. Then he pulled a dusty rug over the loose plank. The finishing touches to his plan, involved visiting the estate agents over the summer and removing all traces of the transaction from their books and agents' memories. Those who owned the deed, owned the house and lost paperwork was an everyday feature of property transactions in London.

Tom sat at the table downstairs as the light faded, listening to the sounds of evening approach. A dog barking nearby; the urgent shriek of a car horn on Croom's Hill; birds squabbling in the back garden. He allowed the peaceful satisfaction of a job well done to wash over him and rocked his chair gently back and forth.

When Tom returned to Wool's later that evening, the boys were already in their rooms. Most shared with three or four others, but Tom had been on his own for several years. He had a smaller room, which included little natural light and was permanently freezing all winter, so no one expressed an interest in challenging him for it. In fact his room wasn't a proper room at all, but part of the caretaker's suite; the cupboard opposite had a treadle-lathe below the shelves. Tom's room had previously been storage for tools and supplies and even though none had been kept there for the last six years, it still reeked of turpentine. He was moved when three other boys Tom shared with, complained to Parnaby.

'He's our mate, I swear on it Mister Parnaby, honest he is. But gets in our dreams,' one had explained and the others nodded in agreement. 'Don't tell him sir, please. We don't want him feeling bad _or nothing_.'

Parnaby would never usually listen to boys' requests, but Tom's secret and whispered behaviour interested him.

'Leave it with me, boys. Shhhh-shh-shh. Get back to your duties and we'll say no more about it.'

Parnaby told the caretaker to clear out one of his cupboards and recruited some older boys to give it a lick of paint. When he moved Tom in, Parnaby's continual hand-rubbing made him suspicious. Cut off from the others at night, Tom preferred it over time and there was no alteration in Kit's attitude towards him. When he'd shared, Tom's few possessions were frequently rifled through; now his room was somewhere you had no excuse to be near. A distance grew between himself and the other boys, which suited both parties.

There was a scrap of paper on the bed when he opened his door; someone had been there — which was unusual in itself — but why advertise the fact? It must be Kit, inviting him to explore some interesting tank, or thrilling artillery piece. The note was not from Kit.

He unfolded the parchment and saw neat, adult handwriting.

 _Tom imagines himself far above his peers. Thinks too well of his abilities, but the folly of youth blinds and flatters the arrogant. Tom schemes and designs, but always upon foundations of sand. Tom lacks the courage to confront those who would challenge and test him. Those that are older, wiser and better than he. I will see Tom humiliated; I will see him punished and cast out. Understand this warning as a solemn promise._

The meaning of the message was still unclear, despite reading it five or six times. It was a threat of course, but from whom? The written voice he didn't recognise and there were two identical symbols at the bottom — runes — perhaps the letter 'G'. The note had magical properties, here in Deptford; where aside from himself, magic was unknown. The enlarged first letter, quivered with green flame; then Tom felt heat bloom across his face, before the parchment was consumed in all directions. He let it fall to the floor and the flames died, leaving a brittle, blackened crisp in its place.

He opened his locker, took out an envelope and wrote down the message, plus the twin symbols beneath. After many corrections, Tom believed he had the original text. It was written by someone familiar with the magical arts; someone powerful, who also wanted to scare him. Dumbledore? No. Any confrontation from him would occur at Hogwarts, not here in London. It was someone he didn't know, who clearly knew him.

For an hour Tom stared at the crumbled ashes on the floor; sifting and collating every chance encounter he could think of. Desperate for any scrap of useful information he could use, but none came to him.


	10. X: Unleashing the Rabisu

**X - Unleashing the Rabisu**

Two weeks later, Tom was lying in his dormitory at Hogwarts: staring at flagstones between the Persian rugs. The excitement of buying his first proper home, had been spoiled by the cryptic message; someone was watching him. If asked, Tom would say nothing could get to him, but that clearly wasn't true. The message bothered him a great deal and even worse, someone knew it would.

Tom could be amused by something, then he'd remember and his smile would fade. The constant threat was sapping his enthusiasm and made him feel old. He touched the patch of scaled skin under his shirt; although the patch had not grown, it throbbed and kept him awake at night. Combined with the menace of some unknown tormentor, he felt himself sinking to a darker place.

'You've a black dog on your back,' the matron at Wool's said, when boys were out of sorts. Tom was tired throughout the day and his lungs only half inflated if he took a deep breath. When dealing with the unknown, everyone was a potential threat; it exhausted him and he had no idea who to turn to.

'Tom.'

Gary was at the door.

'They're letting us out after prep, with it being light; summer term privilege, I'm told. Coming?'

He wanted to say no and just lie on his bed, moping, but Tom forced himself upright.

'All right.'

They walked down the grass slope towards the quidditch pitch and Gary's purpose became clear. A group of eight or nine girls, were circling the edge of the forest.

'Evening ladies.' Gary smiled and nodded; far too confident for his own good.

They smiled briefly, out of politeness, but had no intention of making conversation easy for him.

'Tom and I were just enjoying the evening air, when I said: _shall we see what the girls did on their holidays?_ '

'What did Tom say?' Vivian asked, hands finding her hips.

Gary shrugged. 'He didn't say much as it happens. Which, knowing Tom, I took to mean: let's go over and ask them.'

'I was in London. Seeing shows, riding the subway, catching rays in Hyde Park. You?'

'Oh, much the same, Vivian, but in Didsbury.'

She shook her head and turned to Tom. 'Did you miss us over the vacation?'

'Miss who?' Tom asked, his attention elsewhere.

'Us,' Vivian indicated herself, Eudora and Betty, 'your muggle studies classmates.'

The girls were watching him.

'Of course, who doesn't miss muggle studies?'

It was very like Tom to answer a question, with a question. Was he being gently sarcastic; did he genuinely miss them, or did he just miss the subject? They would probably never know.

Returning to the school buildings, Gary headed to the common room, but Tom peeled off towards the library, saying he'd catch up later. Betty looked pleased to see him and Tom felt a flash of sunlight, but not enough to banish the dark clouds. Someone like Betty could take their pick and probably would, so why should he care what she thought about him?

He did care though. He cared what Gary and Kit thought, what Betty felt and he cared that someone was watching him. Then, without warning, he saw the whole picture. This person remained nameless to confuse and isolate him; deliberately, so he would mistrust and suspect his friends. Divide and conquer. They genuinely were his friends — he knew that for certain — so the dark clouds gradually began to part

Tom was in his dorm for lights-out and the headcount, then he returned to the library. Always methodical in his approach, he searched, analysed, then tested rigorously; rejecting or making additions to what he considered proven fact. Tom could endure long periods of boredom between breakthroughs and needed no encouragement to keep going. The Map of the Mind was a work of riddles and half-truths. Bel Awil-ili was an irritating man: always talking about some map, but never mentioning where to find it. Riddling about its purpose, without drawing conclusions; hinting at powerful magic, then never referring to spells by name. His personality was mischievous and teasing; someone who delighted in frustrating others. Tom sighed and continued: _just ten more pages before bed._

On Friday night, Tom was back in his regular section of the library. Eyes itching from a lack of sleep, but steely with determination. The Map of the Mind would help him find the chamber and the chamber would tell him who he was. If he knew who he was, the reason for his terrifying dreams might be revealed; then he could treat his condition before the scales spread. It was an interconnected chain, which needed to be solved one link at a time.

Tom was familiar with Bel Awil-ili now. A man obsessed with collecting dark arts from the four corners of the Babylonian Empire, then using them to influence its dynasty kings. They came and went, but he — Bel Awil-ili — would remain as a guiding light. The puppeteer, to a succession of puppet rulers. Tom hated the man for being so elusive, but admired his ambition. He attacked where the weak hesitated; however, this ultimately brought about his downfall.

Bel Awil-ili had summoned the Rabisu: a terrifying demon. The weak would rather fall on their sword, than look into its hideous eye. Inspired by early success, Bel Awil-ili's protégé — Nebuchadnezzar — rose to become the mightiest ruler of the ancient world. It was overconfidence which consumed this pair of great and feared men. Inspired by the Song of Gilgamesh, where Gilgamesh befriended the wild man, Enkidu; Bel Awil-ili romantically imagined that the Rabisu and he would form a powerful alliance. So the Rabisu was unleashed, but its intellect was far greater than either suspected. It had three desires: destruction, death and decay; which it directed towards Bel Awil-ili, closely followed by Nebuchadnezzar. The king whose empire crumbled to dust, after only a generation.

At 3am and in desperate need of sleep, the tiredness lifted from Tom's eyes. An ancient, Akkadian book of magic, continued the story where none had before. Bel Awil-ili was consumed by a former lover, literally. Paralysed, except for his swollen eyes, he was devoured alive, one piece at a time. A stark warning then followed: using The Map of the Mind, would awaken the Rabisu. Once awake, it would not depart until the death debt was paid in full. The final words were chilling: _your last action will be to underestimate the Rabisu, a being in existence since the Enuma Elish, or birth of our world. Possessing the greater intellect of any scholar, with intelligence only exceeded by its profound cruelty._

Back in bed, Tom thought he would fall asleep instantly, but that was just wishful thinking. What should he do? Accept the risk, discover his identity and eliminate his note-writing tormentor; or bury the idea and take a safer path in life?

On reflection, that was likely to be a much shorter life too. He already knew his answer, the instant he'd read the first warnings.

* * *

Tom wandered down to the boathouse to think. Throwing stones into the water was calming; especially when his lack of progress threatened to overwhelm him. The antidote was to retreat and perform a simple, repetitive activity, which allowed his mind to wander. Hand-sized stones, lobbed into the loch from the jetty, always felt satisfying. He imagined their downward progress: escaping sunlight and embracing the chilly depths in slow motion. Standing beside Hogwarts' boathouse reminded him of early trips to the river beach at Tower Bridge, although the two locations could hardly be more different. Water created an open space without obstacles; it deadened sound and reflected a bigger sky. If he felt trapped or hemmed in, water offered a way out.

He didn't hear anyone coming down the stone stairs. Gary was concerned for his friend; Tom was tired all the time, rarely seen and permanently holed up in the library. Doing what exactly? No one knew and several friends asked Gary why Tom roamed the castle at night. Teachers were unaware of what Tom was up to, but the rumour mill at Hogwarts was constantly grinding away. Secrets rarely remained secrets for long, though pupils never passed information to well-meaning teachers. They lived in their world and the students lived in theirs.

'You know where the fun's at.' Gary interrupted Tom's daydreaming and gathered several stones, before joining him beside the loch.

Anyone else and Tom would have made his excuses, but Gary left private matters undisturbed. _Time healed all_ was a favourite phrase of his grandfather's.

'You want to know what I've been doing at night.' Tom didn't look round.

'In one,' Gary skimmed a stone unsuccessfully.

Tom wanted to tell someone and Gary was the only real choice.

'I've found something. Something which might tell me who I am and where I'm from. Why performing magic is as easy as falling asleep.'

'I could help you know. Not in the book-learning department perhaps, but in other ways. That's what friends are for.'

Tom recounted what he'd learned so far. The Chamber of Secrets, The Map of the Mind and Bel Awil-ili's dark magic. How he was sure The Map of the Mind book was a key, despite it never explaining how to find The Chamber of Secrets. The Rabisu, he decided not to mention. Though he did leave a hint that using sophisticated dark magic, might have consequences.

'Stop me if I'm wrong, Tom, but this sounds bloody dangerous.' Gary lobbed a shot-put sized stone, which broke the surface with a satisfying thunk.

'Don't think I don't know it. You have to understand: I don't have a history; I just exist. No grandfathers; uncles; aunts; neighbourhood or birthplace. I know a small area of London's south docks and an even smaller area of Scotland. My birthday is the day I was brought to Wool's; no one knows when I was born, or where and information about my parents is non-existent. Today, at this moment; I'm barely here. Really, what do I have to lose?'

'You say stuff, like there's no choice but to agree. I can see your point, but you do exist. More than you know. You just need reminding from time to time, _is all_.'

Gary might not be Hogwarts' most academic pupil, but he understood people better than anyone else in their year.

Gary had become friendly with the Scottish caretaker at Hogwarts, since their midnight encounter last winter. Hubert Feather was eccentric, rather than unusual, but pupils still avoided him. Being short, with a weather-beaten face and confused expression, was enough for most to give him a wide berth, but he was actually a sensitive man, prone to bouts of loneliness and soul searching. Despite qualifying for access to the staff room at Hogwarts, few on the teaching staff spoke to him. It always felt like he was intruding on their personal space; so he rarely visited — except in the holidays — when few were around. Gary spoke to him regularly and discovered that he knew more about Hogwarts Castle, than any of the teachers. He tolerated the loneliness of his job, because he loved the buildings and their unique atmosphere. Feather often wandered the corridors at night, not to catch pupils out of bed, but to appreciate and savour the Gothic architecture.

Taking a considerable risk, Gary mentioned The Chamber of Secrets. Feather simply treated it as a conversational peg, to hang several opinions on. He explained how Salazar Slytherin had constructed the chamber when the school was founded, but everyone at Hogwarts knew that. He did eventually share some valuable information: revealing that there was a rumoured hidden entrance. Unearthed, then sealed when the bathroom plumbing was installed, several centuries earlier. Many at the time believed the chamber was still accessible and that one day, Salazar Slytherin's heir would discover it.

'Some say forces unknown have accessed the chamber ever since. Aye, it could be true that the plumbing concealed the entrance, by hiding it in plain sight _._ If you catch my drift?' Up by the second floor lavatory perhaps, who knows?'

'Have you seen it?' Gary asked.

'Ach no, but I've _no'_ been looking. Anyway sir, I've got lamps below that won't bewitch themselves. Have a pleasant morning.'

'You too.' Gary was excited; Tom would have to be impressed by this nugget of information, wouldn't he?

That evening after prep, when they were supposed to be in the common room, or taking a breath of fresh air; Gary and Tom visited the second-floor girls' lavatory. At seven-forty-five in the evening, it was unlikely they would find anyone in there, but you never knew. People had an irritating habit of doing exactly what you weren't expecting. So they stood outside the door for several minutes: trying to establish whether anyone was inside.

Tom eventually swung the door back. The room was empty so they split up, scouring for clues; the longer they stayed, the greater their chance of discovery, so both moved quickly. Gary was thinking about breakfast, because he needed to concentrate on something and still didn't have a clue what they were looking for. After covering all the obvious places, they found nothing unusual.

Half-past eight was fast approaching and the chance of someone walking in on them, was increasing by the minute, so they closed the door and slipped along the corridor. It was only a short trip back to Slytherin House and no one was likely to notice their absence. Rounding the corner, they narrowly avoided walking into a teacher.

Professor Dumbledore looked them up and down carefully, only moving his eyes. Gary appeared relieved, but Tom was nervous. He'd managed to avoid any one-to-one contact with him since joining the school, but knew that eventually, their paths would cross. Why, of all the opportunities available, did it have to be this one?

'Good evening Mr Box. And to you, Mr Riddle. Taking a turn around the grounds?'

'Yes,' Tom replied, which made Dumbledore smile.

'An excellent decision on such a fine evening,' Dumbledore turned to Gary. 'How's the transfiguration assignment coming along, Gary?'

'Not quite done yet, but getting there, professor.'

'Good, good.' Dumbledore paused and made eye contact with Tom. 'A shame you decided not to join us, Tom, I hear you're a man of many talents.'

'Muggle studies was my preferred choice, sir.'

Dumbledore smiled again and nodded.

'Good evening, gentlemen.'

Dumbledore walked between them with his hands clasped behind his back. Gary pulled a face which suggested they'd had a lucky escape, but Tom didn't see it that way at all. He was unsettled by the encounter. Was Dumbledore the author of the note? Perhaps not, but for now he was still on the shortlist.

* * *

Transfiguration class in the summer term was on Thursday afternoon, between two and four. Difficulties in scheduling meant a double period was unavoidable, so well fed after lunch and with the weather improving, drowsiness had taken control of Gary's mind and body.

It was theory of transfiguration first, before they moved onto a practical exercise in the second hour. The class was attempting to turn a ladybird into a button and back again; turning something alive, into something also alive, was still years away for first formers. The prospect of changing an insect into a dull object like a button, wasn't helping. Gary's attention had drifted and with eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings, the urge to let his head drop was overpowering. Lunch had been hotpot with a sage-scone crust; hearty and filling, but that hadn't stopped Gary getting hold of an extra portion from a hotpot hater. On the verge of sleep, he had a flash of inspiration.

His eyes opened and locked on Dumbledore. Transfiguration was about changing one thing, into another thing, wasn't it? What if The Map of the Mind was just a type of transfiguration? It only appeared when…? When it was in the right place? The Chamber of Secrets, or somewhere else, who knew? Maybe it was the book after all; otherwise how would you find the chamber? Gary's scalp bristled with excitement and possibilities. He had no idea where the revelation had come from; whether the book would transfigure into the map, or where it had to be taken, but surely this was a breakthrough? He endured a miserable ninety minutes pretending to listen, while twitching in his seat. The practical was a disaster; Gary's ladybird ended up as three spotty buttons. When they were finally let out, he sprinted across the stone bridge to Slytherin; Tom wasn't there, so he ran over to the school library.

When Gary eventually found Tom, he explained his theory patiently.

'The way I look at it, the entrance only appears when the right thing is in the right place. Though obviously, I don't know where that is. Or what needs taking. The book is all I could come up with.'

Tom was still thinking things through; _Gary could be right._ The Map of the Mind book was certainly possible. Tom reviewed the text in his head: _t_ _he more you looked, the harder it becomes to see. True, if the object was right in front of you and typical of Bel Awil-ili's riddling personality_.

'You're a genius, Gary.' Tom could hardly believe it. His friend had solved a problem he'd been wrestling with for weeks. Here was an example of what could be achieved, when you had people working alongside you.

'I do try, young man.' Gary dusted off his shoulders.

Tom beckoned Gary through his portal and into the restricted section of the library. He took The Map of the Mind down from its shelf and showed Gary a coiled-chain mark on the binding.

'Not to be removed from the library. Why? So there's no danger of it accidentally transfiguring, when you wander around Hogwarts.'

'Can we not drop it _out the_ window?' Gary looked hopeful.

'No. Most books in here can be moved, but not this one. The charm's powerful and could take years to crack. If Hogwarts crumbled to the ground, this book would still be here. The Map of the Mind is translated from Aramaic and before that, Akkadian; it's possible that was the language used to create the charm? No one knows.'

The brief high of Gary's discovery, was replaced by deflation and a feeling that the adventure into Tom's past had stalled. The magic was beyond Tom and the history: too patchy to make further progress. Neither said a word as they returned to Slytherin, but Gary felt he'd let Tom down in the search for his family.

Arching his back in bed, Tom kicked away his blankets while still asleep. Heat was pouring off him as he writhed between the sheets.

 _Deep within Hogwarts, he was standing before a sturdy door. Tom crashed his shoulder into the enchanted metal, but it was cold and unyielding. So dense, that no sound came from beating against it. He held his bruised shoulder with one hand. 'Open,' he pleaded. 'Open for me.'_

 _His body ignited with a green flame that was cool to the touch. He projected liquid-jade shapes across the door's surface, then his mouth released hissing sentences; perhaps they were verbs, nouns and adjectives? Strange sounds that he distantly recognised, spewed from inside him. He wasn't asking the door to open; he was demanding it. Tom Marvolo Riddle, direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin, was entitled to access through birthright. He was the heir apparent. The entrance stayed shut as Tom walked towards it; then, with a hill-cracking boom, the door tore itself apart. His will had forced it to. The ragged sections fused behind him, as he passed through. His green glow spread across the chamber, with its coiled serpents and broad pillars. 'Welcome, heir to...'_

He was snatched from sleep.

Gary was kneeling beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

'You all right pal?' He handed over a mug of water and Tom gulped it down. 'You shouted out. Just now.'

'I'm fine.' Tom tried to gather himself. 'It was just a bad dream, that's all.'

After prep the next evening, Tom found Gary and suggested he follow him through the portal, into the restricted section.

'We know it's stuck here, you said so.' Tom interrupted Gary.

'It's not Aramaic. it was translated during the Dark Ages, into a language called Parseltongue; a language Salazar Slytherin spoke. He's supposed to have built The Chamber of Secrets and… Well, it's a language I've always understood.'

'So we can take the book _out_ the library?' Gary looked hopeful.

After pausing for a moment, Tom continued.

'The language is impossible to learn, well, reading it is possible, but not speaking it. My family may be related to Salazar Slytherin — long ago perhaps — but related. I have a magical history; me, the boy from Wool's. Heir to…'

'Steady on, Sir Tom. Let's get the book out first.'

To his credit, Tom hadn't tried. He was waiting for Gary so they could try it together. The dream had informed him what to say; the door was a mental barrier to entry and Parseltongue was his key.

Tom hissed, much louder than Gary was expecting. His natural reaction was to laugh, so he smothered his mouth with one hand and Tom recited a charm which sounded something like.

 _Harisss susssstissta issslisstavichssst hessusvistasss issscassstusssvis tasssssicht nyyyvissssstassss._

Tom slipped the book into his robes, pinning it in place with an arm; then his left hand found a trouser pocket, to steady the arrangement.

'Can you see it?'

'No,' Gary replied. It wasn't obvious, but you could definitely see it.

'Well, no point in hanging around.' Tom set off with Gary in tow.

They approached the desk near the entrance on unsteady feet. A pair of guilty men, waiting for sparks to appear, endless detention, or even immediate expulsion.

 _Excuse me young man, I'd like to know why you have a book in your robes? What possible reason could you have for stealing from the school library? Fetch the headmaster immediately! We're disappointed in you, Tom, you've let us down and nobody more so, than yourself. Is petty theft all you're capable of these days? What a waste._

Tom's mind frothed as he imagined an escort to Dippet's study. They would be expelled on several counts and his future plans would lay in ruins.

Nothing happened, even when they got back to Slytherin.

That night, at two in the morning when the castle was asleep, they would discover an entrance to The Chamber of Secrets. Or not.

Before opening the door to the second-floor girls' lavatory, Tom experienced the sensation that he was standing at a crossroads. He might look back at some point in the future, remembering with a wry smile: _that was the night my life changed_. He looked at Gary beside him, who was smiling to hide his terror. Gary was busy thinking about the warnings; the warnings Tom had swept past with barely a second thought.

They let themselves in.

It was nearly silent at this hour. Somewhere miles down the valley, a crofter's dog howled and yipped; disturbed by something unseen: a galloping centaur, perhaps? Tom was afraid to open the book initially, not because of what it might contain, but because he had no other plan to fall back on. Failure would mean traipsing back to bed, getting up early and then scouring for further clues. Even success was hazy. He leaned the book on the edge of a basin: part of a row of sinks against one wall, with tall windows to the right.

 _Lumos Vulcanus_ provided a steady ball of light, rotating above their heads and flickering across the stone floor. Tom opened The Map of the Mind and turned each page carefully, expecting the unexpected at any moment. At close to four-hundred page turns, he eventually reached the backboard. Then his enthusiasm slumped.

Tom stared at the endpaper for more than a minute: a complex design of interlocking spheres, stars and cubes. It was peeling a fraction in the lower corner, so Tom pinched the edge and pulled. A rectangle of parchment beneath — decorated in the same design — eased out of the cover. When he removed and unfolded it, a blank sheet, the size of a school desk was revealed.

'Don't get it wet!' Gary put his hand under the map.

The parchment was not entirely blank; there were tiny markings in the top-right corner, which showed the second-floor girls' lavatory at Hogwarts. The map was a floor plan. Stalls were along one wall, with a row of sinks opposite and windows facing the door. Gary leaned forward and pointed to the sinks on the map.

'Look at these two.' There were two miniature figures, seen from above. Just a dot-sized head each, with feet extending below. A tiny arm appeared when Gary pointed and as he withdrew his hand, so did the figure.

Gary stared at the sheet.

'Shame it's not bigger.' The map zoomed further in, revealing more detail. Gary turned his mouth down and nodded at Tom.

'Impressive.'

A shape appeared in the corner, but it wasn't a human figure, or anything in particular. The shape drifted towards them on the map and formed into a black hand. They backed away, but not quickly enough; it was now beside them in the centre of the room. They looked up from the parchment, little by little and prepared for the worst, but there was nothing to see. Before relief could set in, a disk of light appeared below, with no source above it. Someone, or something, was rising through the floor.

The creature was tall: in excess of ten feet; the blue colour of rotting meat and it had no hair or ears. Where its mouth should be, was a single black eye and where its eyes should be, were two closed mouths. It wore an ancient tunic of dark leather: the sewn skins of lost souls, containing a hundred blinking eyes. Gary's stomach turned to water.

Tom was staring at the creature, which projected intense anger and aggression, despite having no recognisable human expression. Its raven-black eye was surrounded by foul and weeping flesh; then it drew the lips back from both its mouths to sneer, revealing rows of interlocking knives in place of teeth. Gary's shoulders were locked in fear and his body hunched forward.

'You are the Rabisu,' Tom stated.

'Their need must exceed their fear. They dare speak my name, or does ambition drive them across the threshold to my door? Fail and they shall burn for centuries in a pit of misery; their pain shall be my enduring pleasure. The greater the mercy they seek, the less they shall receive; they will no longer fear death, but beg for its release.' Although the creature spat the same words from each mouth, the voices were different. One deep and callous, the other hissing and sadistic; they combined to form a terrifying harmony.

'I dare to speak your name.'

Gary's legs wobbled. So Tom was planning to aggravate the creature? _What a relief!_

'Rabisu. Answer me and I shall answer you.'

The creature laughed, then dropped its voice several registers.

'I shall snap their bones, one by one. They will be chained between pillars of lunacy and fear; they were foolish to summon me.'

Gary's spine quivered.

The creature's hooves clipped the bathroom floor, hinting at its substantial weight and blue, rotting scales covered its iron muscle. The Rabisu was preparing to deliver a hammer blow with its head, then sink its razor mouths into their soft bodies.'

Hissing spilled from the sneer on one side of Tom's face. Gary had no idea what Tom said, but the effect was immediate.

 _I demand access to the Chamber of Secrets. It is my birthright. My bloodline and the ancient tongue guarantees me passage_.

The Rabisu responded.

'The ancient tongue brings access... And ruin. Ambition is the price of passage; for in creation, they must first destroy in order to build. I shall speak when their ambition has been demonstrated.'

The creature sank through the stone floor, showering them in sparks.

'Just putting it out there, Tom, but challenging the huge, blue thing? Not your best idea.'

'I told it I have a right to be here.' Tom appeared remarkably calm.

Gary shrugged. 'Fair enough. I tell you what though, I don't fancy yours much.' The experience was still too disturbing to be funny.

'We should go. There's nothing we can do for the time being.' Tom put the map in his jacket pocket.

Gary, pushed his friend towards the door. 'First sensible thing you've said all night.'

There were dire warnings about dealing with the Rabisu. Never bargain with the creature; you may win a battle or two, but you will always lose the war. The price it charged for failure, could not be higher.


	11. XI: A Glimpse Into the Past

**XI - A Glimpse Into the Past**

Several weeks before exams began, a poster was pinned to the school noticeboard, attracting a huge crowd in the Great Hall foyer. The Hogwarts Annual Picnic was scheduled for the last Saturday of May; a brief treat before exam fever gripped the school. Each year group was assigned a tutor and several staff members, with the picnics being held at different locations throughout the forests. Partly rigorous exercise, since the round trip was upwards of ten miles and partly to act as a bonding experience. To remind everyone while they were deep in study, that a world still existed beyond the library walls. The poster showed a group of students walking across heather moorland; some were deep in a forest feeding a unicorn and others were racing sticks in a stream. Dippet smiled serenely from the top left, occasionally raising an eyebrow. It was a poster which took several minutes to fully appreciate.

Vivian traced her finger along the text at the bottom. 'First form — in the care of Professor Beery — will picnic at The Adder Stones of White Moon, deep in the Forbidden Forest.'

'That's a shame about Herbert Beery,' Gary added. 'We'll get lost and have to eat each other to survive.'

'My study please, Mr Box.'

Beery was reading the poster further back. Everyone remained silent and Beery bounced on the balls of his feet for a moment or two; then he clasped both hands behind his back and followed Gary over the viaduct.

On the Saturday of the picnic, first formers were the last to depart. They had the least distance to travel, plus Beery was still busy organising their picnic cart. Hauled by a pair of thestrals, the cart was ancient, rugged and piled high with food for seventy-five pupils.

Betty spent several hours getting ready in Vivian and Eudoras' dormitory, high up in the Ravenclaw Tower. On sunny mornings, light streamed through the latticed windows, while dust slowly rotated in its beams. It was a comfortable, happy place for her and kept homesickness at bay. Something she struggled with in the dungeons of Slytherin.

Betty had lent Eudora a skirt she'd bought in Paris; despite her protesting it was far too beautiful for the forest. A bold, floral print, dark blue with pale pink roses; Eudora's mouth opened when she saw it, but her immediate reaction was to retreat for safety's sake. 'I shouldn't, it might catch on a thorn.'

'It doesn't suit me, but it's just right for you,' Betty insisted. 'Hang on a moment.'

Betty stood behind Eudora and took her plaits: hanging down on either side. She passed them over Eudora's head and using hairpins, secured them on either side.

'You have a beautiful neck. You really shouldn't hide it.'

Eudora was transfixed by her reflection. She almost looked sophisticated; as if some of Betty's effortless style had rubbed off on her.

'Dora, they're gonna love that,' Vivian said. 'Now, shake a leg, or you'll be keeping the spooks company.'

Eudora wasn't sure who _they_ were.

A trail of students followed Professor Beery, with his flame-coloured, frizzy sideburns quivering in the breeze. Beery always smiled, not from contentment, but nerves. At any moment, whatever he was doing might self-destruct; taking everyone down with it. He was accompanied by Dorothy Cronin and Ludmilla Onegin, all three of whom had a passion for the dramatic arts. You might say they enjoyed each other's company, because few others cared to know them, but that was only partly true. All three lived and breathed for muggle theatre. During the holidays, Dorothy Cronin — with her muggle connections — frequently organised trips for them to London's West End.

Their motley crew also included Klebhorn, who was attached to Hogwarts' support staff. He'd lived at the castle for over thirty years and no one — including himself — had any idea of his age. Around seven feet tall and thin as a rake; he also had the strength of ten men. Klebhorn helped in the kitchens, assisted the caretaker and roamed around the castle: a solution in search of a problem. It was rumoured that he couldn't speak and was confined to Hogwarts for stealing babies, but that was just teenage cruelty at work. His thick, unkempt hair and imploring eyes, gave him a tortured appearance, but he was always gentle, hard-working and reliable.

Setting off at nine-thirty, they took a ten minute break at eleven, then pushed on again. The cart's wheels stuck several times, but Klebhorn heaved it out of the ruts with little difficulty or fuss.

The forest was at its most dense as the sun passed overhead and dozens of pupils were now losing the will to live. They crested a ridge and finally their destination lay before them: a plateau, more than a hundred feet above the valley floor. Towering pines behind the back wall, drooped in the heat and a waterfall cascaded over the rock face: providing a rumbling soundtrack and ground-level rainbows. The plateau was bathed in sunshine, while insects warbled in the heat. A clutch of adder stones: round boulders with holes through their centres, littered the plateau surface. Adder stones were the work of lone serpents, piercing the boulders with their tongues. Moss and lichens covered their surface, giving them an ancient, sponge-like texture and sprays of wild flowers and daisies, swayed between the tree roots.

Klebhorn unpacked the cart, cracking open immense blankets and guiding them in controlled flutters to the grassy surface. Most students took their shoes and socks off, then squeezed the grass between their toes.

The house-elves of Hogwarts' kitchen — as usual — had produced a range of tasty morsels. Cold pork lattice and Cumberland pies; bridies; wheels of mature cheddar; three dozen cottage loaves; Scotch eggs; homemade coleslaw; tomatoes; cucumber and celery from the kitchen greenhouses. Oat crackers; sausage and sage rolls; cheese scones; potato salad; spiced aubergine flan; Arbroath smokies and pumpkin juice. Strawberry tart; individual cherry cakes; Battenberg; Victoria sponge; chocolate-dipped ring doughnuts and fruit salad. The chatter died away as everyone tucked in. None of it would keep, so everyone was encouraged to eat until it was gone. Exercise from the walk, was an excellent excuse to push the boat out.

Gary and Tom were on the same rug as Vivian, Eudora and Betty, but sitting on opposite corners. Beside Tom were: Daniel Joshi; Brian Downer; J.P. Magwaza; George Emery and Dougie Kernow. Gary sat cross-legged with his back to the girls.

Eudora and Betty had finished eating and were resting their backs against an adder stone. They got around to the subject of summer holidays and the imminent war; there was a possibility that they might not be able to return to school, but who knew for sure? Most didn't want to face the prospect of a war, so they looked for any opportunity to change the subject. Betty confided that she felt at home in their surroundings for the first time. Eudora's first thought was to chime in: _me too._ However, her friend was wrestling with something; turning the conversation towards herself, would be inappropriate. Betty glanced at Tom.

'I'm going to miss everyone.' Then the idea of never returning, prompted her to blurt out.

'I like Tom. I think about him when I'm alone. I know it shouldn't matter, but it does.'

Eudora felt like she'd been dealt a low blow. Applying as much self control as possible, she replied.

'He is handsome.'

'I know. I don't think it's that though. I often feel alone and when I look at him, I think I see the same kind of… Not loneliness. More of being alone and not quite measuring up to what the world expects of you. Which doesn't make sense, I'm sure. I just want to tell him that it's fine, he should always be the way he is. It feels like there's a part of him missing when he's in the courtyard, sitting down to lunch, or writing furiously in class. I want to tell him that he's got a friend, no matter what.'

Betty's smile was fixed in the distance, before she snorted. 'I'm rambling. Just ignore me.'

'No,' Eudora placed her hand over Betty's, 'you're not at all.'

It didn't sound like rambling to Eudora; it sounded exactly like the voice in her own head. The one she never talked about. How a boring morning lit up with interest, if she passed Tom in the corridor. For several hours afterwards she would imagine herself shopping: picking out beautiful clothes for her children. Their children. Her and Toms' children.

She wanted to screw her face up in despair. She wouldn't dream of mentioning anything so pathetic and here was Betty, being more honest than she could ever be. She was better than Eudora at being honest too. Eudora's lip was quivering and her eyes prickled with tears. She was destined in life to be a runner up: a cautionary tale for those who dare to hope. A friend who offered heartfelt advice, despite nursing a delicate heart of her own. She couldn't like Betty any less for it, but often — in the absence of someone else — she resorted to familiar ground and blamed herself. _Useless!_ Eudora breathed deeply with a ragged sigh; she was about to screw her face up into its ugliest form and shed tears. The shame of it hardly mattered.

Then she saw Gary Box edging his way across the blanket towards Vivian, who had no doubt encouraged him. The fear of becoming a laughing stock, chased the self-sympathy away. With the back of one hand, Eudora dabbed at her tears and forced a mechanical smile.

Gary leaned forward and whispered into Vivian's ear.

'Tom and I are staying on. Thought you lot might be interested in staying too.'

Despite keeping a straight face, Vivian's eyes couldn't conceal a twinkle of excitement. 'I'll see if I'm busy.'

'Back of the line at five. If you're not busy.' Gary edged back to join his friends.

Tom watched Vivian's face while Gary whispered in her ear and knew at once that his friend was right: they would stay behind. He didn't mind Betty and liked what she had to say. She was pretty, beautiful in fact. He'd like it more if it were just the two of them and not for the reason Gary would assume: so he could steal a kiss. It had never crossed his mind until now. It was just that? Nothing was a big deal when they were together. There was no pressure to be funny, or clever; she saw past that. So yes, Tom was pleased they were coming. He had to be careful though; he was casting the spell and on a teacher too. The punishment for which, would be swift, severe and likely to fall squarely on his shoulders.

The first-form party packed up reluctantly at half-past four, with everyone helping Klebhorn to load the cart. Beery with the other teachers, circulated their picnic site and removed any litter with a flick of his wand. Several students stood nearby and held a sack open to catch the flying debris. When they were satisfied that the location was left as they'd found it, Beery and his colleagues formed the pupils into a long line. Gary and Tom joined the rear, then backed towards the woodland edge. As they approached it, Gary hissed at Vivian. She grabbed Betty and Eudora, then nodded her head towards Tom and Gary, miming _come on!_ Eudora wanted to resist, but saw Betty picking her way through the bushes, so she followed without complaint.

There were several Scots pines with trunks broad enough to hide their group. Meanwhile, Beery travelled down the line of students, tapping each one on the head as he counted.

Gary tutted.

'Did I ever thank you for that detention, Beery? No, I don't think I did.'

Tom flicked his wand. 'Imperio.'

'Consider yourself thanked.' Gary put a hand on Tom's shoulder.

Had anyone been paying attention to Beery, they would have noticed his usually-flamboyant self, stiffen with awkwardness. He hesitated, fully aware that heads needed counting, but before reaching the end of the line, he already knew that everyone was present and correct. Despite having no number to fall back on. Curious, but at the same time, hardly worth mentioning.

'Onward Mister Klebhorn, onward.' The party shuffled down the bridleway and took many minutes to disappear among the trees.

'We'll be missed. Someone's bound to notice we're not there.' Eudora instantly feared the worst and began to obsess about expulsion.

'Relax, Brian Downer _'_ s _saying_ he's seen us _up_ front. He'd never cover for anyone, so they'll believe him. No question.' Gary was probably right in that respect.

'Why is he covering for you then?' Vivian was suspicious.

'He owes me and we'll leave it at that.' Gary half-closed his eyes and nodded.

They decided to follow Tom's suggestion and climb to the top of the ridge, then gather wood and light a fire. With each step, Eudora became more afraid of her shadow. Eventually, she realised that things weren't so bad after all; followed by the shocking discovery, that she might actually be enjoying herself. The person most likely to put a stop to her having fun, always seemed to be herself.

They talked for hours, comfortable in each others' company and glad they'd decided to stay. Finally, the sun disappeared below the horizon, igniting the sky. They sat admiring the blood-red spectacle and feeling refined for appreciating such simple pleasures. Gary, who was moved by the scenery, announced, 'we're the lost guardians of White Moon.'

'Speak for yourself,' Betty giggled and the laughter spread.

'All right, all right. Let's poke fun at the northern lad.' Gary shook his head

It was late and the walk back in darkness was a surreal experience: like a waking dream. Disembodied voices, laughter, no awareness of distance and branches rearing up at the last moment. They bumped into one another from time to time, not sure who was who. Despite taking longer, the journey flashed by and with disappointment, Eudora spotted the lights of Hogwarts Castle first. They left the Forbidden Forest and crossed the moonlit lawns, breaking into two groups before entering the school. Tom, Gary and Betty to Slytherin, Vivian and Eudora to Ravenclaw. Little was said as they went their separate ways. Climbing into bed later, Eudora closed her eyes and drifted to sleep between cool sheets. She could still hear the jokes, twigs snapping and laughter during their journey back. It was one of the few times in her life that she'd broken the rules on purpose and try as she might to suppress it. Her smile kept returning.

* * *

The following Sunday morning, Eudora woke later than usual. Her normal Sunday routine was a quick circuit of the school, then breakfast when the doors opened. Waking from such a deep sleep, she lay drowsy and motionless under the covers, so Vivian tapped a foot that was poking out.

'Hey, sleepy head, make it snappy or you'll miss breakfast.'

Eudora sat bolt upright, gathered her clothes and headed for the girls' bathrooms. She was plaiting her hair, when Betty looked round the door.

'Coming to breakfast?'

'Yes, just two minutes now.'

When they arrived at the Great Hall, there was a new poster in the foyer. This one was larger and ran along the undecorated wall beside the entrance. It showed pupils in Hogwarts house colours, racing above the treeline of a nearby peak. The racers wore goggles and rode long, streamlined broomsticks; the speed they were travelling and the length of their brooms, meant turns were wide and sweeping. Gary Box nudged his way to the front and read the text at the bottom aloud.

 _'The Brush Sweepstakes: Hogwarts 800_ ,' he paused. 'Aside from being a terrible pun, what does it all mean?' Then he continued reading: ' _Inter-house relay competition. A challenging, cross-country course of 800 miles_. 800 miles! _Each house to supply a team of four racers and two reserves, selected in whichever manner their tradition dictates. Saturday 24th June at 12pm. Spectators to assemble from 11am.'_

'Well. Last exam is on the 23rd. So, I expect we'll all be there.' While the picnic was to relax students before exams began, the Hogwarts 800 would give them something to look forward to afterwards.

Eudora and Betty slipped into breakfast, seconds before the doors closed.

'Why announce it now. With exams and everything just around the corner,' Eudora wondered.

Jane Moran, a Slytherin fifth-former, was sitting opposite them, sipping tea and reading a book. She didn't look up until the last moment.

'Because there's a war coming and people like to pretend it's not happening. Bring out the traditions, get everyone cheering. Anything, as long as we don't have to deal with what's right in front of us.'

Jane looked at the two fresh-faced first formers, with something approaching sympathy.

'It's a fun event,' Eudora tried to explain. 'Enjoy yourself once exams are over and... Really... To settle who wins the house cup.' Jane gathered her plates and turned to leave.

'House cup? It's for first formers. You get over it once you've more important things to worry about. You girls have a fun morning.'

The sarcastic exchange jarred Eudora, but Betty less so.

'Don't worry, you saw the size of the crowd. Except for a few miserable individuals, everyone's looking forward to it.' Betty squeezed her shoulder.

Eudora smiled back, but the way Jane Moran had dismissed their enthusiasm, stayed with her most of the morning.

That afternoon, broomstick practice groups sprang up all over the school grounds. Betty was right; older pupils may be less bothered about winning house cups, but the competition lit a fire under most students. First and second formers who had little hope of selection, arranged themselves into teams; laying down jackets as markers, then recording their runs using precision sand timers.

Jane Moran was not far from the truth; Dippet and Hogwarts' staff all read the Daily Prophet and were well aware that war was imminent. Although it ran along different lines to the world of the everyday wizard or witch; muggle society and their own, were fundamentally linked. The Hogwarts 800 was a useful way of keeping the students focussed and optimistic.

Eudora and Joan de Manio from her Ravenclaw dorm, were taking an afternoon walk. They needed some air after a brutal stretch of revision and were keen to see what was happening down by the quidditch pitch. There were dozens of students in groups, dotted around the outside of the stadium, since its wooden skeleton provided a convenient circuit to race around. Most were in the sixth form — joking — but with serious intent. They were also wearing protective gear and high speed goggles, with no cape to slow them down. Younger pupils were hypnotised as they flashed by, practising changeovers and showing off to an appreciative audience. Eudora spotted Gary, Brian and Tom nearby, conducting their own trials; with Brian keeping a check on times.

Tom was a gifted flier, perhaps not a naturally smooth glider, but certainly a brave risk-taker. Gary — in contrast — was pedestrian, safe and destined never to make the school team. Unconcerned by his lack of ability, he loved flying, even if it was from the back of the field. Tom was completing an entire lap of the open ground; skirting the edge of the woods and focussing more on stamina, than sprinting speed. Gary saw Eudora and beckoned her over.

''Dora.' Vivian's nickname for her was starting to stick.

Gary turned to Eudora's dorm-mate.

'Afternoon Joan.'

'Hmm.'

'Come out to lend us your support?'

'No,' Joan replied, 'just for the walk.'

'Joan, stop breaking my heart.' Gary pretended to stumble backwards clutching his chest.

Joan faintly shook her head, before wandering over to Brian.

Gary checked Joan was out of earshot.

'There's something I need to tell you. Well, show you. Meet me after tea in the Fountain Courtyard, over the greenhouse side.'

Tom came speeding towards them and pulled the front of his broom to one side, releasing his feet from the stirrups. Powerslides meant you could dismount on rapidly slowing legs; which was impressive, but more so because he never seemed to care about impressing people. Tom removed his goggles and pushed his hair back; powerslides reminded him of leaping from the rear platform of buses.

'Eudora.'

'Hello, Tom.'

'I need one of the long brooms, but fifth and sixth formers got them all, before I knew the school had any.' Tom looked over at the senior boys barrelling into high speed turns, with a mixture of admiration and envy.

Joan finished talking to Brian and nodded in the direction of school, raising her eyebrows. Eudora agreed.

'I'll see you later, Gary. Bye, Tom.'

Both boys surrounded Brian and began to plan a new route. Hoping to squeeze a fraction more from their ancient broomsticks.

Eudora made her excuses and left tea early. As promised, Gary was standing in the shadows of the Fountain Courtyard; over-dramatically she thought. There was a moment of awkwardness, before Gary suggested they leave for Hogsmeade immediately. Without really thinking about it, she agreed, though Eudora felt more exposed than usual without Betty by her side. The trip also represented a significant risk, since there was no cover of darkness to rely on.

In Hogsmeade, Gary led them to a cottage on the fringes of the village, whose back garden and gate were accessed by a path. There was a steep, grassy slope on the other side, which dropped several hundred feet to the valley below. Gary let them through the gate and they walked casually up the path; with Eudora presuming that the house belonged to a relative of his. He produced his wand and tried to unlock the back door, but nothing happened. Eudora suddenly woke up. Gary was breaking in! Then, not fully understanding why, she leaned forward and twisted the stiff handle; it was already unlocked.

'I knew that _were_ open.' Gary tucked his wand away. 'Just testing you.'

Eudora felt sick once they entered the house: this was all wrong. Gary whispered that he'd followed Tom here, earlier in the week; he didn't mention why, but said that Tom had returned several times. It was likely Tom knew the owner.

'What are we looking for?' Eudora hissed.

'Whispers are supposed to be quiet, y'know?'

'Well I can hear your breathing a mile away.' She'd wanted to say something earlier and now he'd given her good reason to.

'Shhh. We're here for clues, not to squabble.'

They walked in slow motion, rolling their feet, but this didn't prevent the floorboards creaking, so both of them had pained expressions as they crept forwards. Passing through the kitchen and into the hall, they saw a staircase leading to the next floor.

'How 'bout up there?' Gary pointed at the low ceiling.

The staircase produced a symphony of squeaks and groans. If anyone was in the house; they had unlimited warning that intruders were sneaking about. A table at the top of the stairs had an envelope on it, which Eudora turned over. The corridor only had one window at the far end, meaning it was too dark to read. 'Lumos.' It was Eudora's first attempt to use a spell in anger and she was amazed that it actually worked.

'That'll be nothing,' Gary nodded at the envelope. 'I know Tom, he's very particular about hiding things. Only if it's well hidden, is it worth finding.'

Gary opened a door to one of the bedrooms; the curtains were drawn, so he began rooting around. After a minute or so, he realised that he was alone. Gary poked his head back onto the landing.

'Eudora, please! We're supposed to be looking. Otherwise this is all a waste of time.'

There was silence, then the suggestion of a sniff. Gary lit the end of his wand and held it up; Eudora was dabbing her eyes with a sleeve.

She'd been feeling homesick earlier in the day, despite having friends to lean on, but Gary had just shouted at her. Whispered, to be fair, but he'd done it loudly. The tears came without warning; Eudora was trying to help, but didn't want to get into trouble and there were also exams to worry about.

Gary was genuinely shocked and reviewed his last few sentences. He might have sounded cross, or even, dare he say it: bullying. Everyone knew Eudora was a soft touch; if you pretended to strain a wrist, she'd carry your scrolls to class. Even if you could wrap her round your finger, you shouldn't. That's what feeble-minded people did.

Gary handed her a handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

'Don't, you'll start me off.'

Eudora tried to laugh, but it stuck in her throat.

'I'm so sorry, Eudora. I'm worried about things too, but I meant nothing by it. Please. Don't cry.'

Eudora unfolded the handkerchief which was freshly laundered and ironed. She assumed a hankie belonging to Gary, would be in a shocking state; then realised that she hardly knew him at all and was just making assumptions. Besides, he'd apologised so sincerely and was always honest to a fault. She dabbed her eyes and handed back his handkerchief, resisting the temptation to blow her nose into it.

'Shall we look in there now?'

'You lead the way,' Gary said.

They rifled through drawers; under the bed; in cupboards; along shelves; underneath things; on top of things and behind things. Once you began, it was easy to forget you were looking through someone's personal belongings. They found nothing out of the ordinary.

'Let's move that,' Gary suggested, pointing at the wardrobe.

Their first effort, moved it fractions of an inch. It was extremely heavy and scraped along the bare boards, but by easing each side, they could slowly walk it away from the wall. Gary expected a doorway, or a cache of treasure, but there was just the ghostly outline of a wardrobe and bare floorboards below. Eudora pointed the tip of her lit wand, at the floor. She was about to move away, when Gary grabbed her hand and pulled it back. Two knots on one floorboard were missing, leaving finger shaped holes. He dropped to his knees, lifted the plank and an arm's length of wood came away. There was a dusty carpet bag below the floor; the two handles of which, were clearly visible. Gary lifted up two more planks, revealing a hole large enough to crawl into. He heaved the bag, but it flew into the air; there was something so light in there, it practically floated. He set it down and opened the zip. Eudora gasped, while her face was bathed in yellow light.

The bag was full of gold galleons, hundreds probably. Gary picked one up and tossed it in his hand. They were traditional, quintuple-sovereign galleons, more than double the usual size and very heavy. A spell was enchanting the bag; presumably, so it could be lifted by less than ten people. Lying on the gold to one side, was a sheaf of papers. Gary reached up for Eudora's wand tip and steadied it above him.

'Thanks.'

He picked up the papers and read a broken summary of what they contained: title deeds and solicitors letters. 'This property, _Middenfell_ , is owned in title and freehold by Tom Riddle Esquire, purchased on this seventh day of March, Nineteen hundred and thirty-nine. Signed by the Grand-Witch, Land and Leasing Coven (Hogsmeade branch).' Below it, was documentation for a further house in Greenwich, also owned by Tom Riddle Esq.

'Tom owns two houses. That must be nice. Let's have a count of this money.'

'Why?' Eudora whined. It was getting late and they'd ridden their luck so far. Plus there was the walk back.

Gary thought that at least a few of the galleons were rightfully his, but had no intention of explaining why.

'You know? In the interests of gathering facts.'

He picked the bag up and carried it around the room, impressed by how effective the spell was. Near the entrance, the bag plunged to the floor, pulling Gary down with it. Whichever spell was enchanting the bag, it only worked inside a small radius.

'Help,' Gary shrieked, tugging at the bag, but it wouldn't budge. Tom would know if the bag moved even an inch; he would also know it was Gary. They grabbed a handle each and despite tugging in every direction, it stayed where it was.

If they set off for Hogwarts any later, Gary and Eudora would certainly be missed. More than ten minutes of heaving and both of them were already exhausted. Red cheeked and catching their breath, they looked into the gold for answers.

'Why don't we take a few at a time and pile them over there?' Eudora suggested. 'Then move the bag back and put the galleons in the bag?' Anything was worth a try.

Gary scanned his peripheral vision for several moments before agreeing.

'Brilliant.'

For thirty minutes they piled up coins, running the few feet between the bag and the wardrobe. When empty, they picked up the bag, which floated to waist height as they approached the hole. Then they guided it back into the space and tossed a dozen coins in to anchor it. The remaining gold was returned to the bag as quickly as possible and Gary totted up the value as they went along: 213 quintuple-sovereign galleons (worth 1,065 ordinary galleons). A mind-numbing sum; nearly £5,000 in muggle currency and enough to buy ten more houses. Tom had certainly been busy. Gary replaced the sheaf of documents, shifted them till they looked unmoved, then folded the handles back and replaced the floorboards. Despite finger fatigue, heaving the wardrobe back posed no problem. They burst through the back door and ran up the path, ignoring any twitching curtains.

Eudora developed a stitch as they ran along the cart track. 'Just run it off.' Gary wheezed when she began to slow.

It was nearly dark and several lights were burning in Hogwarts at ten-fifteen; then it hit Eudora hard. _Forget about Tom finding out; we could be expelled for this!_ Her heart thudded as she climbed the stairs to Ravenclaw. Creeping in, Betty grabbed her hand.

'Quick, get changed, I've said you're at the owlery, but you have to get into bed. Quickly.'

Eudora was flooded with relief. She changed and leapt into bed, plumping her pillow and pretending to look on the verge of sleep. Matilda Horne — a research associate in non-wand magic — was also a Ravenclaw house tutor. She opened the door and held up a lantern.

'Miss Pippincraft. Junior girls never visit the owlery, late on a Sunday evening. Perhaps there are rules I'm not aware of; special rules, which only apply to yourself?'

'No, there are. Not. I mean, Mrs Horne.'

'I'm certain it won't happen again, because I know Headmaster Dippet would be very disappointed to learn of your nocturnal activities. To say nothing of your flagrant disregard for school rules.'

'It won't happen again, Mrs Horne.'

Gary found his bed with far less drama.

Tom was still awake and propped on one elbow.

'Where have you been?'

'Trying to get into those kitchens again. It's a long time till breakfast, my friend.'

'You'll never get past the charms.'

'Slughorn miss me?'

'No, his mind was on other things. If you know what I mean.'

Gary let out a whistle of relief and tried to forget that he'd just spent the evening, rifling through his best friend's possessions.

* * *

Approaching the dark arts classroom in the main teaching block, Tom passed Dumbledore going the other way. The professor was wearing a three-piece suit, paisley cravat, silver rings on each finger and had his long hair tied back. He held several scrolls under one arm.

'Good morning, Tom.'

'Morning, sir.'

Tom hoped they would just ignore each other. Dumbledore obviously mistrusted him and the feeling was mutual.

He raised a finger and Tom was obliged to stop.

'Quick question. Have you reconsidered joining us in transfiguration? We'd certainly value your contribution.'

'I'd prefer to stay with the muggle studies group, sir.'

They locked eyes, Dumbledore peering in and Tom defiantly closing the door.

Dumbledore walked on to his appointment.

'You're welcome any time, Tom. Never forget that.'

Back in Slytherin, Tom took stock of his achievements so far. He'd deciphered many of the foundation riddles in The Map of the Mind, those to get you started. They were straightforward enough and when solved, a tiny section of the map was revealed, along with a further riddle. It was a learning document: solve this, proceed here, think some more, but always moving forward; knocking down obstacles as they appeared. All of which, should reveal where the entrance was located in the lavatory. However, finding the entrance was just the first hurdle. Navigating the maze below the dungeons and qualifying for admission, was probably years away. Years at Hogwarts was what he had; all he needed now, was to take the first step on his journey.

Gary was reliable and meant well, but he'd discluded him from this part of the quest for good reason. It was dangerous, possibly life threatening and Gary was less able to defend himself, should anything happen. Every reference he'd uncovered about The Chamber of Secrets and the Rabisu, contained a footnote. An explicit warning that the magic involved was unpredictable and should be avoided at all costs.

Tom felt no fear when he read these warnings. The finality of death made him anxious, but far less so than the prospect of an anonymous, humdrum life.

Danger was always compensated, by a belief that he could gain the upper hand in any confrontation. Occasionally, the risk of what he was putting himself through, crept up on him. Then the tremors that had plagued his early childhood, would return; fingertips shaking, eyes flicking left to right and his mouth too dry to speak. Building and bubbling, swelling like a genie, until the only release was to tip his head back and scream.

During his first years at Wool's, the tremors ended with actual screaming, but in time he controlled those urges. The fear had not vanished entirely and part of him believed that one day, it would break free of its dungeon.

Passing Dumbledore was probably a coincidence, but the intensity of his stare troubled Tom. Finally revealing the entrance, involved neither riddles nor spells; he must access a particular window, in rooms occupied by a member of the teaching staff. That teacher was Dumbledore. Why, of all the people in Hogwarts castle, it had to be him, was probably just bad luck. He suspected that Salazar Slytherin may have been the original occupant of Dumbledore's living quarters.

Tom would face several trials, which the book assured him, were designed to discourage all but the most driven. Completing the trials would also demonstrate his ambition to the creature. Tom was more than prepared to face the Rabisu again and whatever riddles he had planned for him. Most of his research after their first meeting, focussed on Babylonian magickal tradition, especially in its defensive form.

Tomorrow evening, Tom would enter Dumbledore's quarters and complete the last of his preliminary tasks. Then, if the texts he'd studied were to be believed, the entrance to The Chamber of Secrets would be revealed. It would mark the end of his old life and the beginning of a new one. Sometime in the future, he would walk down a busy street and confidently make eye contact with other pedestrians; he would know who he was and where he came from. Then, where he was going should become clearer.

The next evening Tom stole into the kitchens: an area of Hogwarts strictly out of bounds to students. The main kitchen floor was half the size of the Great Hall above, with the remainder split into larders, workstations and pantries. Cast-iron ranges — laid out like a box maze — filled the centre, with curved, brick ovens set into the far wall. Hopper windows above, flooded the far wall with amber light and tall shadow. Eight house-elves zipped between appliances, tapping loaves of bread, turning joints of meat and pushing potatoes into ovens, with floating wooden paddles. Shifting pans over the ranges, simmering sauces and sieving vegetables; all performed by clicks of their fingers. The house-elves' slick apparating, meant relatively few could operate such a large kitchen.

Teaching staff who were working late, could request a tray from the kitchens; a popular option during exams, when the workload peaked. It was not unusual to pass a steaming tray along the corridors: floating above head height to avoid collisions.

Before entering the kitchen, Tom enveloped himself in the _Babylonian charm of smoke and mirror_ s. As a person moved, the smoke in front reflected a copy of their background; effectively, they disappeared from view. A keen eye might notice the ripples of a shape moving, but it was the height of service and the house-elves' were far too busy. In the hot-prep larder at the back, were two dozen trays, each with a note identifying who the tray was for. Tom saw Slughorn's name and Beery's too.

Dumbledore's was in the third column and it included a polite request for three slices of toast with mashed banana — for Fawkes, his phoenix. Tom backed into the corner and waited. Eventually, a house-elf apparated onto a stool in front of the trays; plates of food then appeared by course, which she covered with cloches decorated in Gaelic fretwork. For a second Tom thought he'd missed his chance, but no puddings had arrived yet. The house-elf tutted, then vanished. Tom reacted immediately and lifted the cloche covering Dumbledore's dinner: cottage pie with greens, carrots and peas. He tipped his sleeping draught over the meal and froze when it pooled on the surface. Finally it sank into the mashed potato, so Tom edged back into the corner.

The house-elf returned, closely followed by the puddings: jam and coconut sponge with custard, served in bowls covered by side plates. With a snap of her fingers, the trays set off — zipping overhead to private studies across Hogwarts — so Tom backed away. He needed at least two hours to be sure; making the sleeping draught act quickly, would only raise suspicion. With the concoction he'd brewed, Dumbledore would become progressively tired, before eventually seeking out his bed. It paid to be cautious, when dealing with someone of Dumbledore's intellect.

Standing outside Dumbledore's rooms — again — Tom had the feeling that a pivotal moment in his life was approaching. He might fail the challenge, or equally likely: Dumbledore might interfere with his plans. Even if he did succeed, there was no easy path and failure would almost certainly result in his death. His younger self would have avoided all this risk, but Hogwarts had changed him; he was like an insect, desiccated and buried below the ground at Wool's. At Hogwarts, vital drops of moisture had awoken him and now he was crawling towards the surface. For the first time, safety would play second fiddle to his driving ambition.

Braced for the door to creak, Tom was surprised when it slid silently on its hinges. Dumbledore's study was empty, then something moved! Over there, under the window. It was Fawkes, asleep on a wrought-iron perch. The bird shifted from one claw to the other, then after stretching its neck to one side, settled down again. Tom finally breathed.

It was the blueprints for castle extensions at the turn of the century, which informed him of the layout. Dumbledore's chambers consisted of three rooms, unusual at a school where many staff made do with two. Firstly, there was the study, then the practice and finally the bedchamber. Tom was currently opening the door which led into Dumbledore's practice; the heavy latch arm clicked from its receiver when he turned the spindle, but nothing stirred. This was a favourable layout. The phoenix was in the study and shutting the door behind him, there was now a barrier between each potential alarm.

The practice room was larger and also circular in shape, with a higher ceiling. There were several tables of mixed height, bookshelves and along the wall: a gantry, with wooden steps leading upwards. A single blue flame — Dumbledore's night-light — burned in an iron chandelier above. His wand lay on one of the tables, beside two open books, a piece of cheese and several water biscuits. An amateur detective would deduce that tiredness had crept up on the professor, so he'd retired to bed in the middle of something.

The gantry ran below two windows, so Tom climbed up and rolling his feet, approached the first latch. It was stiff and after applying more pressure, he prepared himself for the inevitable noise. When it finally gave way, the window let out a grinding squeak; Tom tightened like wire and paused: listening for sounds of movement. Fawkes was cooing and softly gobbling next door: possibly awake, so he had no choice but to sit tight and wait it out.

More than ten minutes passed before calm was restored; Dumbledore's breathing in the next room, now sounded like a rusty squeeze-box. Pushing the window open, he could see a crude, wooden balcony set into the stone; it had a rail running at knee height, offering little in the way of protection if you tripped. The night was crisp, clear and studded with stars, but despite the scene's serenity, this was where the most terrifying few minutes of Tom's life were about to unfold.

With involuntary clenching in his stomach, he knew the final moment had arrived; it was this balcony, in front of this window, which would provide his passage. He was sure his conclusions were right, but a shred of doubt still persisted; failure would mean his end. For all eternity. There was no sense in prolonging the agony, so Tom shuffled forward, or at least tried to. A wave of undiluted fear froze him to the spot; he wanted to live so badly, but not as some footnote in history. The war raging inside him, would only intensify if he continued to be a person of so little significance. Tom had to find out whether he belonged to the chosen few, or the faceless masses.

He was expected to recite an incantation, then step off. It was more than ten stories to the rocks below and if you survived the fall — which you wouldn't — there was tumbling lifelessly into the ravine to consider. More than a hundred feet further, flipping and somersaulting, shattering his body, before plunging into an icy finger of loch. He'd done the very thing he'd promised himself not to and imagined the fall in detail.

The incantation in Akkadian, came from a textbook of eastern magickal tradition and felt deeply unfamiliar. All he could think about, was whether his pronunciation was up to scratch.

'Alaktu gerru kūru.'

Now he had to step over the edge; which sounded so simple when you said it. Tom tried to swallow, but his throat was parched; his lips were stuck together; he felt sick; he couldn't feel his toes and his head was pounding like another heart. Without warning, Tom stepped over the rail. He rotated forward as he fell, until his fragile skull was pointing directly at the ground; with arms thrashing, he imagined being found in pieces. Tiny pieces. He'd made a terrible mistake and was about to pay the ultimate price.

Tom landed feet first, with no momentum. Not on the rocks below, but in a room: a dungeon, probably in the castle, but there were no clues to guide him. He had pronounced the incantation correctly and despite feeling enormous relief, there was still a job to be done. He took the map from his inside pocket, hoping it would give him some idea of where he was. It was still blank. Had he failed; had he disappeared without a trace; was this what the afterlife felt like?

His determination rallied: steely, after its brutal test. He'd endured plenty of hardship in life, so there was no reason why he shouldn't be confident of finding a way out.

'Lumos!' The ferocity of Tom's resolution, projected the beam fifty yards in every direction. He continued forward, but as he did so, the map faded in his hands; not the detail drawn on it, but the map itself. It became tissue-like and flimsy. He had to stop, or risk losing it altogether.

The map was no longer fading: moving was the cause, so Tom retraced his footsteps. The map's markings grew in definition, until it was its old self again; once he'd returned to his starting point.

This was another challenge: the first tested his courage and this presumably, was testing his resolve. In order to receive something of value, you first had to risk losing everything; if he lost the map, his past and future would be lost too. An hour or more passed. He rejected ideas such as protecting the map with charms or spells, apparating outside the dungeon, or in fact, any form of magical solution. He knew none of them would work; this challenge wasn't a first form potions test.

He must rely on the principle of logic. _In order to win the prize, I must risk losing everything_. A person could be satisfied in life with being anonymous and ordinary, since it was available to everyone. You risked nothing and nothing extraordinary happened. There was a deal to be struck in life, as there was in this dungeon. He could not entertain the idea of losing his past, so that was what he must do.

Tom put the map down and walked in the direction he'd initially taken, surrounded by a dome of light. For more than thirty minutes he walked, listening to his footsteps echoing, but never rebounding. In time and now plagued by doubt, his footsteps deadened as he approached a rock wall.

Set into it were three rectangular doors; it was likely one would return him and the others? Well, they were probably concealing a harsh penalty, but the risk had to be faced head on. There was no question of backing out now. At that moment, the map appeared at his feet; reward for his driving ambition and for accepting the risk without regret. The cavern he'd walked across, was just a tiny room on the map and surrounded by blank parchment. It was part of an access route to The Chamber of Secrets, and sat alone in the centre of the map.

The three doors differed in their finish, otherwise they were exceptionally ordinary. The one to the right had more elegant hinges, the middle door was steel, without handle or features and the door to his left contained several timbers beginning to rot. It would be easy enough to look through the gaps.

 _Foolish!_ Tom reprimanded himself.

It was a test. The door with elegant hinges, he rejected outright; it represented the wasted path in life. For those attempting to replace what was missing, with baubles and trinkets. The other two were more of a challenge.

The decaying door, he saw as the path of least resistance; the easy way out, leading to certain failure. Or it could be the honest, unembellished path. The steel door with no means of entry, was either the demanding path and promised success for those whose reach exceeds their grasp. Or the impossible path, for those whose ambition exceeds their ability. Hours may have passed as Tom deliberated, before he finally tended towards the steel door. Despite his life depending on the decision, he was far from confident in his selection and the steel door would usually be his last choice, since it was in the middle. However, he had to consider the challenge from Salazar Slytherin's point of view; his frame of mind when the chamber was created. Progress should not be easy and access should only be earned through bold and fearless action.

As he approached the middle door to test its surface, deadbolts dropped inside and the door swung away from him. He passed through it and into Dumbledore's study; Tom had survived the trial. It demonstrated how high the price of admission was to The Chamber of Secrets. Failure would end in certain death. He crept over to the door leading into the staff corridor and opened it carefully. As he turned the spindle to lower the bolt, it slipped and dropped with a loud clunk. Fawkes woke immediately and let out a blood-curdling shriek.

Tom's first temptation was to sprint away, but he gathered himself in the corridor. You were more likely to meet other teachers, if you turned right towards Slytherin. So he turned left and ran for the tower staircase; leaping three steps at a time as he spiralled downwards. Tom could hear voices above him, but they were overshadowed by the one in his head. The one reminding him that he was on a journey into his past now; he wanted to shout and didn't care who heard. At the base of the tower Tom ran up the corridor to Slytherin House, with no pretence at stealth.

Moments earlier, Clifford Leavey — Professor of Arithmancy — scrambled along the corridor; where Tom had correctly guessed, a pursuer would follow. With his wand raised, Leavey was more afraid than angry, since his imagination was especially vivid. He'd imagined a wild beast had set Fawkes off; something large: a dragon whelp or chimera perhaps? He would be surprised to learn, it was nothing more than a first form pupil out of bed. Tom was too quick to be seen, but the faint sound of his footsteps did reach Leavey. Once Tom was back in his dormitory, he pulled the covers up high and pretended to be asleep. Several seconds later, the door was pushed open and a face appeared in the gap. Satisfied it was a roomful of sleeping boys — rather than a seething nest of wild beasts — Professor Leavey concluded his investigations and wandered back to bed.

After the night before's commotion, Tom forgot to check the map; then at breakfast he was joined by Gary, so couldn't slip away. During lessons that morning, Tom found it impossible to concentrate. Had it worked? How could he have been so forgetful? To endure the trial and not check afterwards whether the entrance had appeared. _Unbelievably stupid._ Broomstick practice between eleven and twelve, at least took his mind off the map. He broke away from the main group when the lesson finished and luckily, Gary was asked to gather up the equipment.

Tom ducked inside and ran along the empty corridors. His stomach fluttered with nerves when he unfolded the map, then a flood of relief; the markings in the bathroom had altered. His finger touched the map and room layouts extended upwards, revealing a three-dimensional elevation of the castle. Extending downwards from the bathroom — below the map's surface — was a staircase which stopped without warning. The map was beautifully rendered, with fine detail of the castle's endless rooms above. Numerous gaps, suggested there was a hidden warren of viaducts, passages and caverns below.

Someone was approaching, so he hastily folded the map and the elevation collapsed like falling sand. Tom tried to hide his smile as he headed towards the girls' lavatory; there wasn't time to explore right now, but what was the harm in looking?

The second-floor girls' lavatory was empty during the day, as most lessons were confined to the main teaching block. Tom orientated the map, so that it matched where he was standing. The entrance might be below a central pedestal, which he had to walk around to reach the sinks; it was not clear why it was there at all. Perhaps footings for a column that was never built? Behind Tom were the lavatory stalls and in front, there was an oval, Gothic mirror above the sinks. By pacing and checking the map, Tom was certain the entrance was directly below the pedestal. He crouched down to examine it more closely and discovered there was no seam in the stone, no hinge, nor any telltale sign of an entrance.

He felt rising frustration; what more did he have to do? Had he not completed everything that was asked of him? Why then, was he still being denied access? Answering his thoughts, a rumbling below his feet shook the sinks and other fixtures in the room. Dust, disturbed from the ceiling overhead, settled on his hair and jacket. The pedestal dropped through the floor, broke into uniform shapes and was absorbed under the stone flags. When all movement had ceased, Tom peered into the cavity and saw steps leading down to a short landing, then a few more steps, then shadow. He walked down to waist level and hesitated. It was real. An entrance to The Chamber of Secrets did exist and Chosen One or not, he'd found it.

Tom was keen to investigate further, but had revision and other immediate priorities to deal with. More than six years remained at Hogwarts, so there was plenty of time to explore; he would pace himself and try to remain anonymous on this particular journey. Tom backed away from the entrance and as he did so, a glimmer of light caught his eye. Something resting in a hole, along the outer wall of the shaft below. He climbed back down until the cavity was at eye-level, then he reached in and took out a glass ball the size of a marble. Several strands were floating inside, expanding and contracting in a hypnotic fashion; it was probably meant for him, or whoever had revealed the entrance. Tom climbed back up and headed for the exit. Stone blocks rose from below and ground back into place; the pedestal reformed and silence followed as the fine dust settled.

Tom raised the orb to eye level and took out his wand. He was aware of pensieves and other methods of storing memories, but had never been interested enough to investigate them further. Their security was limited and the prospect of a third party experiencing his private memories, was unthinkable. There were other methods of storing memories, more discreet methods, which included glass orbs; perfect for hiding about your person, or concealing in hidden nooks. This orb was different. It contained three strands woven together, suggesting they were a collection of memories. He placed his wand tip against the orb and the strands clung to it. Tom drew them out, reciting a simple incantation and they floated — near weightless — when exposed to the air. He had somewhere to be, but it wasn't urgent, so he lowered the strands to his temple and they burrowed below the skin. Around him, the background fell to the floor and was replaced by another scene.

He was standing in an elegant front room, with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. They overlooked lawns, which undulated down to a lake surrounded by reeds and a pair of willow trees. The furnishings were antique: rich, polished woods, grand oil paintings and exquisite china plates — presented upright on glass shelves. A Napoleon mantel clock occupied the centre of a pale-green, marble fireplace; the walls were papered in matching green flock and the Persian carpet contained beige, white and gold detail. Doric columns carved from cream jade, were set into the walls and gilded in distressed gold leaf. Tom immediately felt uncomfortable surrounded by such affluence.

He turned back to face the windows; cloud cover was total and his eyes followed the driveway, which disappeared into ancient woodland half a mile away. To someone from an orphanage, the sense of space was unnerving. Tom turned and realised he was not alone. A man was sitting in a wing-back, leather chair, reading a paper; he coughed and the chair creaked, then the man coughed again. Leaning forward, he reached for a nearby bell and rang it briskly. In his early twenties, he wore a Norfolk jacket with tweed breeks and mirror-polished brogues; the man was slim, dashing and vaguely familiar. The paper he was reading — The Little Hangleton Gazette — appeared to enrage him.

The door opened and a man of forty with Brylcreemed hair, stood to attention.

'Wintour, see to all this, will you.' The seated man waved a hand at some nearby cups and plates.

'At once Mr Riddle, sir.'

Tom's mouth fell open; the man looked familiar, because Tom saw a similar reflection every morning. The absent father; the one who left his baby in an orphanage to fend for himself. While he? He endured all this _miserable_ luxury. Tom wanted to strike the man, but this was just an echo of previous events.

The butler piled Riddle's crockery onto a silver tray, then he paused at the door.

'One other matter, sir.'

'What?'

'A young woman from the village, sir.'

Riddle pretended to look confused. What was Wintour was talking about?

'A Miss Gaunt, of the Gaunt family. Local, sir.'

Riddle's face was a cocktail of impatience and irritation.

'No! No, no, no. I spend one evening, a single evening in the, er… Company of this insufferably, silly girl; out of politeness, I might add. Now and I'm at a loss to account for it, she seems hell-bent on tormenting me. Thinks we have some sort of a connection? What do you make of it all, Wintour?'

'I'm sure I don't know, sir. She was rather insistent, with important news to relate.'

Riddle cut him off.

'She's here?'

'I showed her into the reception study, beside the china room, sir.'

'Well show her out!'

'At once, sir.'

'Wintour?'

'Sir.'

'Check nothing's missing once she's gone; inform the constabulary if necessary. We know nothing about this girl's state of mind.'

The scene faded.

Tom was now standing beside a meagre, wooden cabin; behind which, rain came sloping in across the fields. Nearby, a young woman around twenty years of age was holding a baby. It was tightly wrapped in Orkney linen and her pretty, but world-weary face was protected by a shawl. An older man standing in the doorway, was pointing and shouting at her.

'You're not my daughter and _far_ as I'm concerned, you never 'ave been. That abomination has no _rights_ to the family name. Now _get!_ You're not needed here _no more, s_ ee? Go catch _yerself_ some la-di-da, fancy muggle-man, _seeing as how_ you're so keen on 'em.'

He turned, but not before adding a parting shot.

'Never, think to come here again.' His face contorted with hatred. 'And it'll be too soon!'

The man slammed the door as flecks of snow whipped over the roof of the shack. The young woman held the baby's cheek to hers, reassuring him. Tom was seeing himself and his mother for the first time.

She squeezed both eyes shut and when they reopened, the streets of London surrounded her. It was Deptford, where he'd grown up and his mother was sitting on the pavement, in front of a pub. The snow settled around her as she pressed against the tiled wall, trying to shelter further under the eaves. Merope's hand was outstretched; too tired to ask for help, pity was now her only means of escape. Tom recognised the pub as the Dog and Bell, in Prince Street and its windows bloomed with a cosy glow, far beyond her reach. The few pedestrians that passed, looked the other way.

The baby was making no sound, so Merope checked his face: cold to the touch and a tinge of blue around the eyes. She rose to her feet in alarm and screwed her eyes shut once more. They were in Parnaby's study at Wool's. He could barely look at this pitiful excuse of a mother standing before him; meanwhile, her baby was rushed away by the matron. Merope signed the form in a looping script.

 _Mother: Mrs Merope Riddle (née Gaunt), Little Hangleton, Father: Tom Riddle. Issue: Tom Marvolo Riddle. Born and registered under the Seal of said office: on this 31st day of December, 1926_.

His mother wept;she'd changed her mind and wanted Tom back _._ Instead, Merope was shown the door and had it closed in her face by a stony-faced Parnaby. No father present, told him all he needed to know; the boy had resulted from an extra-marital affair. He felt nausea when he tried to imagine the depths this fallen woman had descended to and nothing but sympathy for her husband and family. _The shame they must have endured at this woman's expense?_

Merope searched the nearby streets, but there were only faceless factories and yards, with no workers at this late hour. She found shelter at the side of the orphanage, beside the generator shed and drew up her knees. Staring at the bricks ahead, she no longer felt cold, or anything at all. Her reason for living had just been snatched away and now she was alone in a bleak, frozen landscape. It was an hour before midnight and the new year; a year which Merope would never see. The buildings dissolved and Tom was back in the girls' lavatory at Hogwarts.

He stood for many minutes reviewing what he'd just seen. Parnaby told him his mother was Merope Gaunt, but that was just a collection of letters and sounds, not a real person. He wiped a tear from the corner of one eye; she had loved and cared for him, but the others hadn't lifted a finger. His grandfather, father and Parnaby? Not a shred of decency or compassion between them.

Tom walked back to Slytherin. He knew something about who he was and an enormous burden was easing from his shoulders. His mother had cared and now he understood why Wool's had been her destination. She was from a magical family, so he was from a magical family. He'd been right to loathe Parnaby; plus, his father and grandfather had been instrumental in his admission to an orphanage. The scales of justice had always been tipped firmly against him, no matter which way you looked at it. Their time would come.

He had to move these sensitive memories somewhere more secure; they were far too important to risk losing. If well hidden, the orb could also prove useful for storing a selection of his own precious moments.

* * *

Early Friday evening, an unusual meeting was taking place in Hogwarts Library; Gary, Vivian, Eudora and Betty were there, but not Tom. Gary and Eudora felt pangs of guilt, but the purpose of their meeting meant he couldn't be included. As usual, they'd secured their end table by the windows: not easy during a period of such heavy revision.

Eudora arrived directly after tea and placed open books in front of the empty seats. _The others are just stretching their legs_ , if anyone asked. Leaning forward, she made some changes to her revised study schedule, then sniffed and reviewed it. The schedule contained few periods of sleep and wildly optimistic instructions like: _rise at 5.30am_ , _potions classroom for 2 hours study before an early breakfast_. It made depressing reading. When Gary told her about a planned meeting: whispered like a spy in the corridor; she'd secretly been delighted. Now, waiting for the others to arrive, Eudora turned her attention to the meeting's purpose.

Tom had amassed a fortune — far in excess of wealthy adults — at the tender age of twelve. How? There was no known family, so he couldn't have inherited it. Gary did have an idea where the money came from, but wasn't about to share that with anyone just yet. Their plan was to let Betty and Vivian know about Tom owning several houses. Perhaps the other two could explain how that might be possible? She couldn't bear to think of Tom engaged in illegal activity.

'Pigtails.' Eudora looked up. It was Gary's new nickname for her and despite being demeaning, she did prefer it to not having one.

'Vivian and Betty?' Eudora asked.

'On their way. This seat taken?' He pointed at the one beside her. Eudora paused. 'Not just now.'

'I like to see everything spread out before me. The comings and goings.'

'Me too.' Eudora looked down the aisle, demonstrating how true this was.

Vivian and Betty arrived, so Gary told them about their visit to Tom's house, then Eudora took over; he was spinning the story in his own particular way. The two girls were suitably shocked by the discovery of money and property deeds. Vivian spoke first.

'What do we have to do with what goes on in Tom's life? I like him, but _we're_ not his mommy.'

Gary interrupted. 'Tomorrow there's a practice for the Hogwarts 800, over on the west coast, at Loch Maree. Tom's second reserve and they'll be gone all afternoon. We should be ready to go, soon as they leave.'

'Go where… And why?' Vivian couldn't spare the precious revision time.

Gary was concerned for his friend, but even more so for himself. Was a share of Tom's fortune rightfully his? It was self-interest, dressed up as concern.

Gary also wanted to know if he was aware of their last visit. Tom was a good friend, but crafty; he could know all about them invading his home and still keep it a secret. The uncertainty was eating Gary up. Tom was supposed to be his partner when dealing with Sheldrick; he'd promised as much and this twisted logic, was how Gary justified his actions.

Betty responded.

'I'm not saying I don't believe you; I'd just prefer to see it for myself. If I can help, I feel I owe it to him. He'd do the same for any of us.'

Which was true: he was probably the most loyal among them.

'What time do we meet?' Vivian knew when she was beaten.

Tom was in the entrance hall with the other squads, waiting for their transport to the practice session. They'd naturally broken into houses, whispering among themselves and eyeing up the opposition. All were in house colours, with protective leather padding: issued on the basis of knowing where to get it and when. Consequently, Tom had none. They'd also been given racing goggles and flight helmets by their heads of houses. There were teachers on hand to arrest falling riders, but insects and wind were your enemies during high-speed flight. A few students were already fully decked in their safety gear, but most — including Tom — were too self-conscious. Teams had four racers and two reserves. Two seniors, one middle and one junior. The two reserves were both juniors, since they could substitute any leg, which the older riders could not. Tom was the only first-form reserve, with the other houses opting for second formers. For this reason, Tom stood alone. The seniors mocked one another, keen to give the impression that this was some run-of-the-mill event, but inside everyone knew the truth. The Hogwarts 800 was a way of destroying your reputation and picking up a severe injury along the way.

Slughorn strode to the centre of the entrance foyer, hands behind his back.

'Attention competitors, over here. We'll make our way down to the longship in a moment. Klebhorn's already there, stowing the necessaries aboard. Please confine your chit-chat to the bare essentials and the sooner we're all seated, the sooner we can get going. That's all I plan to say, so let's shake a leg. And cut it out Roddy Capshaw. Tripping people up, is not nearly as funny as it seems.'

The longship held their party of thirty, just. Slughorn stood at the centre of the vessel, tapped his wand against the mast and a canvas sail with vertical green stripes unfurled. Oars breached the sides of the hull and probed their way into the water; then the boat picked up speed, bumping over wavelets on the loch's surface. Without warning, a warm gust inflated the sail and they took to the air at a steep incline. Slughorn, gripping the mast at an alarming angle and grinning inanely, shouted.

'Don't worry, we're perfectly safe. Statistically it's safer than being on the ground, so they tell me. You've gone green, Flemyng. Over the side lad, not between the seats; think of your fellow shipmates. Twenty minutes till we land, so hold on tight and keep your limbs inside the vessel at all times.' Slughorn lowered himself onto a seat in the prow; then the longship levelled, before plunging into a rain-bearing cloud.

When the teams snaked down to the boathouse, Gary, Eudora, Vivian and Betty reached the bottom of the Grand Staircase. They'd followed Tom's progress from the tower windows overlooking the entrance. Guilt had also spent the last hour gently twisting Eudora's stomach into a tight knot.

They walked in silence to Hogsmeade, because each of them sensed the others' discomfort. Vivian would rather be anywhere else; Gary was concerned that Tom knew about their last visit. Eudora was terrified Tom had stolen the money, which refused to sit comfortably with her daydreams. Betty was thinking about Tom leaving for his practice session: alone at the back. She'd wanted to shout _good luck_ from the window — to reassure him — but that would hardly have been sensible.

Breaking into Tom's house was more chest-pounding than Gary and Eudoras' last visit. Now they were a small group, on a busy Saturday morning. Gary's plan was to skip the planning stage and just let themselves in through the back door; Eudora thought this was asking for trouble, but when pressed, had no alternative suggestion. The others agreed. If someone looked out of their window and saw several young people creeping about, then of course they'd be suspicious.

Gary was explaining. 'They'll assume we know Tom, which we do. So why creep about? The only person we don't want to meet is Tom and we know he's not there.'

So, with every nerve pulsing from head to toe, Eudora and the others casually walked up the garden path at the back. Gary knocked on the door in case anyone was in; another last-minute-Gary idea. Nothing stirred inside, so he unlocked the door with his wand.

'Alohomora.' The whole exercise took less than a minute. Gary then led them through the kitchen and up the stairs to the first floor landing. It was silent in the cottage, except for their footsteps and an enthusiastic greeting from further up the road.

Gary opened the door to the bedroom they'd searched previously and it appeared unchanged, with curtains still drawn in semi-darkness. Betty pulled the curtain back a chink and surveyed the street below.

'Any chance of an 'and over here?' Gary was gripping a corner of the wardrobe.

Once shifted, he loosened the floorboards behind, then pulled them up. Gary stopped moving. The carpet bag was gone and he raised a hand to massage his forehead.

'Tom knows we've looked through his stuff. It _were_ right here, a bag of gold with paperwork on top.'

Eudora leaned down and lifted out the satchel in its place. Inside was a leather-bound book, which she turned over; the word _Diary_ was embossed on its spine. Gary suggested they read it. He was worried it might say something like: _My so-called friends broke into the house today, then looked through my things. Disappointing._

'No,' Eudora insisted. Being a diarist herself, she knew how wrong it was to read someone's diary. An unforgivable breach of trust.

'Eudora's right,' agreed Betty. Though a small part of her wanted to know whether she featured anywhere inside it.

Gary slumped against the wall: his feet in the hole where the floorboards were.

'Don't read it, just leave it be,' he warned. 'Tom will have protected it with a jinx; I know it's there to tempt someone to open it. At least he thinks it's enemies looking through his personal stuff and not friends. Which is worse, now I think _on_ it.'

Vivian shook her head. She'd been unhappy since they met up and now she wanted to leave.

Eudora crouched near the satchel, opened it and slipped the diary inside with a shudder. She imagined the violent colour of her cheeks, if Tom caught her reading his diary. There was an object beside the satchel, beneath Gary's feet, but further back, so she leaned forward, pretending to adjust the satchel. It was a small heart and her own leapt. Without thinking, Eudora covered it with her hand; the wardrobe shielded her from the other two girls and Gary couldn't see beneath him. She stepped up from the space below the floor and the others replaced the boards in sequence. Then Gary wiped away the dusty handprints with his sleeve.

Eudora moved aside, her knuckles pale from gripping the wooden heart; too late to put it back now. They stood at each corner and walked the wardrobe back against the wall. So she took the opportunity to slip the heart into her pinafore pocket. Eudora often wore her school pinafore at weekends, to protect her clothes underneath, but never noticed she was the only girl who did.

Deflated, they headed back down the stairs. When Gary was near the bottom step, a key was inserted in the front door. Eudora's stomach clenched like a fist; not only were they trespassing, Tom would also discover she was a thief. Caught between wanting to run as if her life depended on it, or bursting into tears and begging forgiveness, she froze. Gary had other ideas and held a finger to his lips. The second-from-bottom step creaked, so he turned towards them with a grimace and his eyebrows raised. Was he smiling? What was wrong with him?

Tom had let himself into the front room and left its door open. Gary eased forward and peeped one eye around the frame. Tom was building a fire, not to warm up, but to dispose of some nearby scrolls. The figure then turned to reach for a log: it was Sheldrick and he relaxed a little.

Gary mimed that the others should follow him. The trick was to do everything as slowly as possible, rolling their feet with no sharp movements. The group made it as far as the kitchen, before they heard footsteps behind them. With feet planted to the floor, everyone waited for an angry shout. Sheldrick needed some matches from the back parlour, but was too busy examining a locket to look up. Eudora thought she might faint.

Sheldrick returned to the living room and his fire. Meanwhile, Gary opened the latch carefully, remembering it had a tendency to drop. He motioned for the others to wait on the step, then eased the handle back with extreme care, as if handling a bird's egg. Gary relocked the door and whispered to the others. 'We leave together, normal speed. We're visiting our friend, _is_ all.'

They walked down the path, along the garden walls and onto the cart track leading to Hogwarts: apparently without a care in the world. No one screamed, _stop!_ So after several minutes, Eudora risked looking back. They weren't being followed, but each of them remained silent for the return journey.

Vivian had her arms tightly folded. She was still unhappy about wasting the entire morning and they'd achieved nothing: as predicted. Also, Vivian didn't fully trust Tom, despite what the others said. Betty was thinking about the diary and chastising herself for caring most about whether she was in it or not; rather less on why Tom had a fortune stashed in a house, he owned. Gary was trying to forget the carpet bag was gone. _Tom knows._ The diary was probably just a trap to catch them in the act.

Eudora was concerned about several matters. Firstly: what was the heart for and was it engraved, or intended for someone? Secondly: how could she return it? Now Tom would certainly know someone had been in his house and that someone had graduated onto stealing his possessions. Everyone would turn on her for being selfish. How had she fallen so far; from a person with morals, to a common thief? She wasn't going to keep the heart, but that was the kind of excuse thieves used when they were cornered. So Eudora forced herself to think about something else. Gary had impressed her in the house; he hadn't folded under pressure at all. In fact he'd come alive.

They reached the main entrance, separated and went off to revise in different parts of the castle. Tom returned from Loch Maree later and Eudora saw him talking to Gary during their evening meal. She sat on the far side of the hall by herself, not because she felt like being alone, but because the wooden heart was consuming every scrap of her attention.

Eudora's first action on returning to her dorm, was to walk corner to corner with her fist clenched. Where should she put it? The heart felt like it was attached to her hand. Only once before — as a young girl — had she stolen anything: a square of toffee from the corner shop in Trim. She was caught leaving and couldn't make eye-contact with the shopkeeper; tears were rolling down her face and the shame made every inch of her skin sizzle. The shopkeeper, Mr Walsh, could see Eudora was sorry, so he let her go with a mild telling off. When she turned from the counter, he said that this would be between them and Eudora nodded, still crying. For months afterwards, when she heard a knock at the door, Eudora imagined it was Mr Walsh. He'd had a change of heart and was now keen to share her atrocious behaviour.

Eudora hid Tom's heart in the Ravenclaw girls' junior lavatory; that way it would be difficult to trace back to her. It was also unlikely that Tom would have any reason to be in a girl's lavatory. She'd tried throughout the afternoon not to think about the heart, but kept wondering why it was heart shaped. The voice in her head was flattering: _t_ _here might be something about you in there_. Happiness would briefly trickle out, before it was plugged by another voice: _why would he be interested in a thief?_ _A plain thief at that. He's not interested in you; not when Betty's available. What can you offer that Betty can't? Better Betty, bests ordinary-thief, Eudora. Again._ Her heart plummeted into her shoes.

Eudora ate only half her tea before slipping from the Great Hall. Now resolved to investigate the heart, the last thing she needed was to stop and have a chat. What did it contain? She'd seen a hairline crack surrounding the heart, hinting that there might be two halves which came apart. The optimistic side of her kept insisting there would be a short verse, or key to unlocking Tom's heart inside; so she broke into a run and immediately suppressed it. Someone was bound to ask her why she was running along a corridor.

There were three pipes in the corner of the lavatory, travelling from floor to ceiling. They serviced the washbasins along one wall, with the lavatory stalls along the opposite wall. There was one large and two identical, smaller pipes, so she'd hidden the heart behind the large pipe: at the point where it met the floor. It was still there, so she dusted it off and decided to open it in a stall, behind the safety of a locked door.

Bringing the heart to within six inches of her face, the weight on her chest grew heavier. It was grained and heavily polished, with hand-carved patterns: front and back. It had a tiny, silver eye at the top, so the heart could be attached to a chain and worn as a necklace. Eudora twisted the heart: nothing. Panicking, she twisted it anti-clockwise and the front came away. Inside was a glass orb containing several milky strands, suspended in what appeared to be a thick liquid. Eudora's mouth drifted open and she clamped it shut. There was no denying it: she was disappointed. In her heart of hearts, Eudora knew there was never going to be anything in there about her, but hope's torch always burned brightly. Right through to the bitter end.

She loved Betty, but girls like Betty were the objects of romance and passion, not the Eudoras of the world. What would she do if there had been anything in there about her? She didn't know the first thing about being someone's girlfriend. Confronting such an inner truth was painful, so she kept a palm over one eye, trying to hide from herself. Eudora wanted to be married one day and have children so much, she could barely breathe the idea out loud. Most of her growing up and playing in County Meath, involved imaginary picnics and days out with her dolls. However, the dolls were actually the playthings of her imagined children; her deepest and darkest secret. Eudora was old enough to understand that wanting a large family, was probably caused by the token size of her own. Up until recently, her daydreams never included a husband. Even saying the word _husband_ , sent a chill through her, or was it a thrill? Her father travelled a great deal and her mother had always been distant. Eudora's extended family were magical scholars and researchers: bookish types who preferred working alone, but she was different. She wanted to be surrounded by life.

So Eudora pressed her lips together and stared into the orb; trying not to let her enthusiasm slump. Bookish types were useful in some respects though. Her Auntie Finola conducted research for The Phoenix Institute, at Trinity: something Eudora mentioned far too often. Trinity was usually regarded as a muggle university, but the library had a mirror, whose reflection contained the larger, magical half of Trinity. _Trinity Aisling_ — pronounced ashling _—_ or the _Vision of Trinity_. Ireland's finest magical scholars learned their craft there.

She would send Auntie Nola an owl, asking her what the orb was for and if it was dangerous. Eudora wondered how many times over the years she'd bothered her aunt for assistance, but that was just her apologetic nature speaking. Auntie Nola might actually appreciate Eudora treating her as a confidante: like a friendly, older sister. Yes, that's what she'd do. Eudora blew her nose and dabbed her eyes; then politely asked if she might pull herself together and stop crying all the time. Replacing the wooden heart behind the pipe, she breathed in and out a half-dozen times, before returning to her dormitory to read. The picture of a calm and carefree girl, who never kept secrets from her friends.


	12. XII: The Hogwarts 800 & Pipe Dreams

**XII - The Hogwarts 800 and Pipe Dreams**

After a poor night's sleep, Tom stood on the broomstick practice lawns at 7.30am. His ribs were too raw to touch and the scales had been catching on his shirt; grimacing, he buckled the leather chest protector tightly. Despite an early bath, Tom couldn't shake the feeling that he was coming down with something; he had a clammy forehead and the skin below his eyes was the colour of clay. Tom was outside to get some air in his lungs and hoped that what he was suffering from, would pass.

School exams were over. Three weeks of broken sleep, minds crammed to capacity and snatched meals. The Great Hall had been silent by day, except for the sweep of an enormous pendulum. Rarely-seen teachers, huddled and conferred in whispers and time? Nothing but measures of time. Hours at the beginning as questions were read and reread; with pocket watches propped on desks and pointed at their owners. Then, like the conclusion of an anxiety dream: a half-hour left and quills slipping through cramped fingers. Desperately holding your breath, hoping to hammer out the fullest answer possible. And always without you noticing, the clock running down.

Exams finished the day before — on Friday — but a relaxed atmosphere was still some way off, especially for the traumatised first formers. _The Brush Sweepstakes: Hogwarts 800_ was a way of regrounding everyone after exams. Shifting focus onto lighter matters, with the end of term only three weeks away.

Except for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s students, who got their results during August; all other pupils would receive theirs during term time. Pinned to the main noticeboards in the Great Hall foyer, they were placed behind glass. So once they were up, that's where they stayed. Tom hadn't even considered his results yet; he was certain he'd done well, but wouldn't dream of saying so to his friends. The last thing you needed when dealing with tough exams, was a success story offering post-mortems on every paper.

Tom had more immediate problems to tackle. Not least, his poor health and now the Hogwarts 800 was just hours away. A further development last night, was sinking in too. He was only a reserve, but one team member had twisted her knee during a broom dismount and the other reserve was prescribed immediate rest after exams. The Slytherin team captain had asked Tom and Roland Garrett — the replacement reserve — to race circuits around the quidditch stadium last night. Tom was far faster and suspected Roland of not trying. Now their squad was fixed, there was no possibility of him pulling out; even if he was at death's door.

The start line for the Hogwarts 800 was inside the quidditch stadium and the finish line, just outside. A circuit was 200 miles and the race would include four laps: each completed by a different rider per team. The broomsticks were cross-country long brooms and twice the length of a standard ride. Elbow rests and a T-bar at the front, made it easier for riders to stretch along the shaft; keeping their wind resistance as low as possible. There were markers every ten miles and missing one, or travelling inside, meant tracking back. Changeovers were within a half-mile lane, which ended at the finish line; the two riders had to slap palms within the box, or risk disqualification. These were the rules worth remembering.

The goal was simple: complete the four circuits, using four riders of the appropriate age, in the quickest possible time. Goggles were essential, especially during downpours; as were full mouthguards, to prevent insect intrusion. It was possible to reach in excess of 370 miles an hour over flat ground, so each rider wore protective padding. Leather, reinforced with ribs of dragon bone and for safety's sake, an ankle strap to secure riders to their brooms. However, accidents still occurred, resulting in lengthy stays at the school sanatorium. The strategy lay in deciding the order of riders: one junior, one middle and two seniors. It was possible — but uncommon — to put two seniors first, then build up a strong lead and try to hang on; usually teams finished with the two eldest riders. The current Hogwarts record for the 800, was three hours, forty-seven minutes, set in 1914 by Hufflepuff House.

In droves, the school packed the stadium stands. Those interested in a more adventurous vantage point, had left earlier and were now dotted around the 200 mile course. House supporters naturally gravitated towards one another, resulting in broad pockets of colour among the crowds. The riders wore warmer clothing than the spectators, in preparation for several hours of severe buffeting and house strips were pinned to their bodies, thanks to the leather, protective shells. Slytherin, in green and silver, were waiting for Slughorn to join them, but he was currently enjoying a light-hearted conversation with Headmaster Dippet. Tom meanwhile, was surveying the crowds with a hand raised to block out the sun. So many in the crowd were watching him, or did everyone think that when they were confronted by huge gatherings? Wild Bill Howard appeared beside Tom.

'Nervous?'

'Yes.' Feeling ill was actually uppermost in his mind.

'Don't worry about it. What's the worst that could happen?' Bill was enjoying the pressure.

'I could fall and break my neck. Then we lose and it's all my fault.'

Bill nodded. 'Or we could win it. By this evening someone will have won, so why not us?'

Slughorn joined them.

'Just a few announcements. Are we all here? Tom, yes, William, yes, Patricia, yes and Richard, of course. Perhaps a few words from you, Dickie?'

Richard _Dickie_ Forrester; team captain; quidditch star; scholar; heart-throb and off-limits, unapproachable student to first formers, stepped forward and dropped a bombshell.

'As you know, each house selects their racing order according to tradition. Gryffindor by ballot; Hufflepuff by house points over the year; Ravenclaw by fastest trial time, but this is all academic. Miraculously, they always start with the youngest rider and finish with the eldest. The traditional method in Slytherin is: luck of the draw and we always stick to it. It's won us titles in the past and never fails to upset the opposition.'

Tom felt the pit of his stomach rise up. This was the kind of unexpected turn he'd been dreading.

'Professor Slughorn has already drawn and the order is as follows: I'll be starting, then handing over to Patricia, she'll pass on to Tom Riddle.' Forrester was pointing at each team member in turn. 'You might not know Riddle, our junior rider. He's there. Finally we're finishing with William Howard, _Bill_. The youngest student to make the senior quidditch team. As if any of you needed reminding.'

The others slapped Bill's back, reassuringly. The anchor leg was everything in a closely fought contest and despite his age, Bill was an exceptional flyer.

Richard continued.

'I'm expecting myself and Patricia to build up a substantial lead, so the handover to Tom will be crucial.' He tested Tom's name on his tongue, but didn't like the taste. Everyone now turned towards Tom.

'You focus on staying upright and holding on to that lead. Hand over to Bill in touching distance of the front and this one's ours.' Everyone took the opportunity to pat Bill again.

 _Not much pressure_ , Tom thought. _Just_ _wait nervously for several hours, risk ridicule, injury or both, then set up Bill to bring home the glory_. If Tom could turn back time and fall off his broom to avoid selection, he would have snatched at the opportunity. Even if it meant breaking several bones.

'Come on Slytherins!' Slughorn looked like a maniac who'd been thrashed with a happy stick. 'The start line beckons.'

A freshly-painted chalk line crossed the centre of the quidditch pitch. More than twenty teachers were nearby and tasked with officiating the race; two per house team, plus numerous others receiving and collating reports from around the course. Several would apparate between key points, making spot checks on riders and relaying progress to the Hogwarts crowd. The spectators would start the race in the stadium, then decamp to the handover lanes in front. A break in the trees was the exit point for competitors and white lines extended a half-mile across the lawns to the finish. Grandstands had been erected along the outside lane of the finishing straight.

With the headmaster alongside, Slughorn unsheathed his wand and placing the tip against his neck, he addressed the crowd. His amplified voice echoed from the far tree-line and a hush settled over the spectators.

'Welcome students, staff and honoured guests, to The Brush Sweepstakes: Hogwarts 800. The eleventh occasion this race has been contested at our school. Four riders from each of the four houses, will race one lap each, covering 800 miles of the surrounding highlands. The fastest team, with accredited changeovers, completing the course in its entirety: will win the title. May I ask first-leg riders, to take their positions on the start line.'

Headmaster Dippet stepped forward, holding his wand aloft.

The riders jockeyed for position, but Richard Forrester had already taken the inside spot. Lanes led from the stadium, bearing right before they joined and faded into a single line; the route then encircled the school, before dropping down to the loch and beyond. Forrester had the initial advantage and planned to establish a spirit-crushing lead from the start. The opposition were half his size, since the other houses opted to send their youngest first and keep the stronger riders for later legs.

'On your marks…'

Forrester was the only rider in a crouch position, with his left leg forward and head down.

'Get set.'

'Go!'

Dippet released a torrent of green sparks into the sky. Random wand sparks also bloomed in the crowd, despite stern warnings not to.

Forrester sprang forward like a scalded cat, his broom low to the ground and travelling twice the speed of his junior counterparts. Lowering himself forward, fully prone, he gripped his front T-bar and banked through the stadium exit. Instead of slowing on the bend he continued accelerating towards the castle, hair flapping behind his goggles; Forrester's shadow kept pace below, before it dropped into the gorge as he passed overhead.

Slughorn almost screamed with excitement, before remembering that as an official, he was expected to remain impartial. Besides, the race would last for four hours, so no need to expend all one's energy in the first few minutes.

Forrester emerged from the other side of Hogwarts and dropped down to the loch before his competition made it over the gorge. It escaped no one's notice that Slytherin could build up an unassailable lead and may have won the race in the first five minutes. The crowd settled back to enjoy the fine weather and rummage through their packed lunches. Cheese and cucumber morning rolls; Scotch eggs; iced pumpkin juice or blackberry cordial. A segment of Gala Pie or Broccoli flan; a slice of Battenberg or Dundee cake and an apple; bartering was widespread among the students, in pursuit of the ultimate, bespoke lunch. Second former, Anthony Paget, had five slices of Battenberg and no drink, while the roasting sun climbed overhead.

Halfway through the first leg, Professor Ruth Farmer — head of international magical tradition at Hogwarts — apparated beside Slughorn. He relayed the breaking news using his wand tip.

'At the halfway point of this first lap, Slytherin lead by four minutes and thirty-four seconds from Ravenclaw. Then Hufflepuff hot on their heels, only eight seconds further back. Gryffindor, fifteen seconds adrift, are gallantly bringing up the rear.'

The Slytherin section of the crowd applauded and began chanting: _who'll win? Sly-ther-in_ _._ However, it was certainly not the whitewash Slytherin's start had promised. Team members were selected for exceptional flying ability and after their shaky start, the younger riders had rallied. Ravenclaw's competitor, also began trimming Slytherin's lead around the bends.

There was a canvas marquee beside the stadium, open sided with a Hogwarts pennant attempting to flap above it. Inside, several benches were arranged around competitor kit bags. The marquee was somewhere for team members to congregate and find inner peace before their turn; a vintage, silver urn rested on a stand nearby, but so far it remained untouched. Tom sat alone, feverish from the heat and silently wishing to be anywhere else.

Changeovers provided the most excitement, so students relocated to the grandstands outside, just before the first-leg riders arrived. There were no incidents of note during the changeover and despite a rousing cheer greeting the riders, many shrugged at one another. _Was that it?_ The medieval madrigal society, continued singing tunelessly about lovelorn trolls, despite being invisible to the crowd. Slytherin were four minutes ahead, give or take a second, with only forty seconds separating the three riders behind. Meanwhile, everyone basked in the sunshine: welcome relief after being stuck inside for two months.

Twenty minutes before his leg was due to start, Tom was escorted to the changeover line with the other riders. All three were seniors and despite not intending to be underhand, they sent him withering looks all the same. Tom was tall for his age, but still more than six inches shorter than the riders from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Carol Cooke from Gryffindor was similar in height, but a far more experienced flyer. As they waited inside the changeover lanes beside the Haunted Wood, Tom fixed his attention on a barely-moving blot of cloud. Only now did it occur to him with a surge of nerves, that he would set off first and the mob would start behind; making him the hare to their hounds. Forrester had drilled him in the holding area. 'You can't keep them back, Riddle, they'll chip into your lead whatever you do. All I'm asking, is that you hand over to Bill with at least a minute in hand. Two minutes: even better.'

Slytherin would be three minutes ahead at most; there were reports that their lead was dwindling. Tom swallowed. His throat felt bruised, but his heart surged with adrenaline; he could not fail: the idea was too horrific to contemplate.

Looking behind every so often, he finally saw the Slytherin rider's profile, flitting through the trees toward him. Before leaving the Haunted Wood, Patricia signalled Tom to get going. They reached changeover speed with the finish line fast approaching, but the changeover was just a blur for Tom. His broomcraft was cold and mechanical, so when he yanked the front to steer right, the crowd's cheers died away. Long brooms were teased by shifting weight and expressing warm confidence in your manoeuvres. Tom lurched around the bend and fought to remember his training: smooth action; steer from the rear; focus far ahead; spot your turns and corner with radiant confidence.

He steadied himself and executed a precise turn around the castle, banking at close to ninety degrees. Just his luck to look amateur in front of the crowd; perhaps fate was already conspiring against him? He dropped down to the surface of the loch and fixed his concentration on the next marker. The turbulence of his hair crackling in the wind, increased as he extended along the broom shaft. Finally Tom's hands gripped the front T-bar and his boot heels rested in the rear stirrups. He kept himself as low to the water as possible, avoiding the higher headwinds, then teased the broom up to its maximum speed.

Competing was better than sitting and waiting. While _enjoying the race_ would be an exaggeration, it was easier to focus now and forget about his poor health. At the halfway stage — near the west coast sea stacks — Tom passed a marker on the brae: representing the most northerly and westerly point on the course. There were several intrepid supporters nearby, spinning wooden rattles and shouting as he flashed by in a wide arc. Tom was now aware of a dot in the distance, perhaps thirty seconds behind; it had to be another rider, whose presence spurred him to push harder. Forrester was clear about Tom's strategy: hand over with a substantial lead. Even at this early stage, his race tactics were falling apart.

For the next fifty miles the course headed south-east through the West Coast Highlands, before turning back towards the Grampians: rocky and remote terrain, peppered with Grahams, Corbetts and Munros. Across these peaks a choice of route was offered, giving the riders tactical options. Course markers: tall blue pillars of flame every ten miles, could be seen from twenty, so concealing them from curious, muggle eyes, was essential. Taking the inside line appeared to be the obvious choice, since it represented the shortest route; however, as the course included substantial peaks, outer valleys were offered as an alternative. Further to travel in distance, the valleys avoided the obstacles and stronger winds found near the summits. Tom, with no experience of hill running, took the obvious route and scaled the peaks.

Daniel Pullen — a senior from Ravenclaw — had a father who was obsessed with long brooms; the race mattered far more to him, than to his son. He'd sent regular owls discussing tactics in the run-up to the competition and Danny frequently complained that his father was navigating the course with quill and parchment at weekends. Scouring for sections where his son might pinch an advantage. His father's advice — despite Danny's protests — had proved correct. He'd planned a route which made use of long stretches of water, while still remaining close to the markers. Water, being the flattest surface, also allowed the highest speeds, especially when riders kept their profile low. Wind resistance was greatly reduced, but it came at a price. If Danny was thrown at high speed, he could bounce across the water's surface and strike the ground hard. No one had been killed during the race's history, but serious injury was common.

Tom was approaching Ben Lomond: a tricky climb, where dropping his speed was essential. He'd been regularly checking behind since the turn south and the dot had slowly gained. However, when he began to scale the peak, the dot vanished. The more desperate part of his personality hoped the rider had fallen, but that was unlikely; Tom knew he was in for a surprise, despite focussing all his attention on avoiding obstacles. He crested the peak, snow-covered in the winter months, but currently just bare rock and tufted grass; then raced down the slope on the other side, with a spiny ridge to his left and the loch below. A course correction inland was needed at the foot of the Munro, which would lead him on to the next marker. Only the topmost tip of blue flame was visible above the ridge.

Danny Pullen had selected Ben Lomond as the place to execute his tactical masterstroke — or more accurately — his father's tactical masterstroke. Further west, running NW to SE was Loch Lomond; protected from prevailing winds, his father persuaded him to drop to the water's surface and avoid the peak. The loch was joined by several tributary streams further south and he could follow one of them cross-country to the next marker. It was ten miles further — give or take — but he could reach up to twice the straight-line speed of someone scaling the peak. Danny was currently several feet above Loch Lomond and reluctantly acknowledging that his father had been right. No wind disturbed the loch's surface, so he eased his body to maximum stretch. The seal between his goggles and face was vibrating in protest; this was the fastest he'd ever been on a broom and fatigue was setting in. A tail of spray arced behind his broomstick: spindrift, from the air rapidly closing behind him. It marked his passage across Loch Lomond from above.

At the last moment, Danny spotted a congregation of tributaries that marked his exit. Banking hard left and pulling his T-bar back, he guided the broomstick upwards and found himself travelling above the loneliest of landscapes. Humped hills were coated in mauve heather, with wild grasses and bracken extending for twenty or thirty miles. Sunshine dappled the desolate peaks, while puffed clouds hung overhead; not a soul in any direction, just the earthy aroma of heather and dried grass. He spotted the next marker and refocussed on the race.

As Tom approached the southernmost tip of the course, he checked behind carefully; if you turned too far, your goggles could be ripped away by the backdraught. There was still no one behind him and briefly, hope clung to the idea that he'd held onto his lead. He felt, rather than saw Danny. Instinctively looking hard right, his goggles rattling, Tom was only several broomstick lengths ahead. Was the other rider smiling beneath his mouthguard? Tom relaxed a fraction of an inch lower to increase his speed and rounded the marker towards the Cairngorm National Park. They were heading back to Hogwarts and Tom's lead had evaporated.

Danny wasn't smiling: grimacing was closer to the truth. His team expected him to overturn Slytherin's lead and he was quick to promise as much. The skin on his face was numb from high-speed rippling and his forearms burned from holding the broom steady. In truth, every inch of his prone body was complaining. Long brooms were fast, but lacked manoeuvrability; you had to pull with all your might to coax them upwards, or bank tightly. Both riders were panting and with fifty miles to go, Tom could see Danny in his peripheral vision. Danny was starting to respect Tom's broomcraft; he'd expected to sweep past, but this young first former had surprising grit and refused to surrender the lead cheaply. Passing over the Cairngorm peaks, they took alternative routes, before Danny finally prised the lead away. Tom had always been a gifted student, so he adopted Danny's tactic of keeping low and using stretches of water to increase his straight-line speed. Dropping down from the park peaks, Tom had regained the lead; it was a pity there were so few spectators present, to appreciate their fierce duelling.

With ten miles until Hogwarts, they accelerated into the Haunted Wood: a final challenge before changeover. The tree canopy above swayed, as their brooms ripped along the forest floor below. They were following tracks wide enough to predict, but tree shadow and bright sunshine confused their high-speed manoeuvres. Tom with no experience of these conditions, inevitably reduced his speed and Danny saw his opportunity. He raced ahead and Tom screwed his eyes shut. Forrester would never forgive him for losing Slytherin's lead.

His performance had unravelled, just as he'd feared since selection; then he saw a rider down. It was Danny. The track banked left, but Danny had been slow to react and grazed the saplings running alongside. His broomstick zigzagged at high speed and he was thrown as it spiralled to the ground. Holding on as long as possible, certainly spared him more serious injury; much of the broomstick's speed had already been scrubbed, when he sailed in an arcing somersault and snapped his ankle strap. Danny tumbled through the bracken, arms wrapped around his head for protection.

Tom slowed and leapt from his broom several feet above the ground. Danny raised his head.

'Anything broken?' Tom squatted down.

'I don't think so.' Danny stretched his fingers, moved his neck tentatively and rotated his arms before getting to his feet. Tom helped him up and handed his broom over.

'We should carry on, the school's close by. You go first, you were ahead.' Tom insisted.

Danny was about to complain, but didn't know what to say. His dream of performing well had vanished a minute earlier and now there was a lifeline on offer. _Take it and worry about the consequences later_ , his mind was screaming. Danny mounted his broomstick and rejoined the track, then Tom let him disappear around the bend, before giving chase.

Standing nearby and unnoticed by the two riders, was an advance party of Hogwarts supporters. Half-a-dozen sixth formers and several from the fifth, had draped their banner over a fallen tree; it yelled optimistically: _You're all winners!_ The group included _Dotty Dot_ Cronin, an avid fan of hill running. All of them witnessed Tom's sporting behaviour; how he'd helped a rival back onto his broom and allowed him to resume the lead. Several had heard of Tom's scholarly achievements, but this kind of selfless behaviour was scarcely believable. _Who did that?_ Most impressive, was that he had no idea his actions were being observed, making them all the more sincere.

Tom could hear the crowds in the distance; the track bent through the undergrowth once more and now he could see the stadium pennants through the trees. Up ahead Danny was waiting. When Tom drew level, he shouted over.

'We're finishing together.' Danny imagined his father overhearing, then hurling himself from the Astronomy Tower in despair.

They kicked forwards, accelerating rapidly and shot from the woods onto freshly-mown grass. The grandstands lit up, since head-to-head racing was such a rarity in the Hogwarts 800 and Slughorn's voice cracked with excitement as the riders approached their handovers. Tom and Danny made eye contact across the lanes and both slapped their teammates palms at the same time. They pulled back on their brooms and slowed to a landing; the next two riders were already gone: Wild Bill just behind his Ravenclaw opponent.

Tom and Danny were swamped by students. Surely this was the most exciting third-leg in Brush Sweepstakes' history?

With an hour still to go, the real business of winning the race had begun. Tom sat in the holding area, out of the sun; as his adrenaline subsided, so the discomfort in his side returned. Or was it worse? To an outside observer, he was nervously awaiting the result of his efforts, but that wasn't the case. He was steeling himself for the decision he had to make. He must do something about his condition, now that it was clearly affecting his health.

An easy promise to make on a sunny day, with dandelion seeds drifting across the lawns and surrounded by cheerful crowds; not so easy in the dead of night, surrounded by forces intent on harming you. Most dark magic involved dealing with the unknown — it was a leap of faith — you never had all the facts to hand and usually made decisions through gut instinct. He'd taken those risks because the alternative was unacceptable; a half-life lived in shadow, always wondering who he was and what his purpose might be. Tom got up and walked over to the stands, concealing his limp as far as possible. He was stiffening and it would take at least fifty paces to loosen his joints.

Professor Farmer apparated beside Slughorn and their conversation became animated; there was much rolling of her hands, demonstrating one rider flying above the other. When she'd finished, Slughorn shook his head and pointed the wand he was holding at his neck.

'Ruth, er… Professor Farmer informs me that the battle between Slytherin and Ravenclaw is ongoing. Both have swapped places with each other, at more or less every marker around the course. She has one more location to check, beside the border of Cairngorm National Park and from there? Well? Our only option is to wait and see.'

The heightened emotion caused Slughorn to wander off-topic.

'The uninitiated might say that cross-country broom sports are on the wane. That there's no place for them in today's magical society. It's all quidditch this and quidditch that. Well…'

Headmaster Dippet laid a palm on Slughorn's shoulder, imploring him to stop through its gentle urgency.

Eudora approached Tom and handed him a cup of water; she was dressed in Ravenclaw colours and looked uncomfortably warm in her blue and bronze bobble hat. There was a piece of parchment stuck to the cup which said: _Well done Tom!_ It also included a decorative daisy below. Tom smiled at her. 'Thanks, but don't let Ravenclaw see you. I'm the enemy.'

'No.' Eudora was surprised by his misunderstanding. 'Daniel Pullen came off in the woods and you helped him back on.'

Tom had no idea how she could know this.

'Everyone's saying it. Professor Cronin saw you and… Well, you're her best student, so I expect she's just proud. After apparating back into the stands, she's told more or less everyone she can find.'

'It was supposed to be between Danny and I.'

'No, don't think that,' Eudora insisted, 'it's a sport and being sporting is the most important part.'

She headed towards the grandstands, before turning. 'It'd still be nice to win though.'

Hogwarts staff and students settled; poised for the hubbub that would greet whoever emerged from the Haunted Wood first. Professor Farmer reappeared, but now she claimed that the front two riders were locked together and had been joined by a third. The Hufflepuff rider and Hogwarts' first team seeker, had caught up. Unless all three took a tumble, Gryffindor's rider posed no further threat.

The crowd rose to its feet through instinct; the riders were close and Tom knew the final run along the cart track was short and hazardous. Everything could change in those final few miles. He crossed to the inside of the racers' area, to give himself an unbroken view of the approaching riders. Crowd noise ceased and everyone craned their necks. Most already knew they would reminisce about the eleventh Hogwarts 800 often, reminding whoever they were talking to that: _I was there_.

Three riders burst through the woodland edge in rapid succession, but from head on, it was difficult to tell who was in the lead. Up above was Gloria MacAlistair, Ravenclaw's final rider, who'd taken the inside line in the final turn. Dropping her speed, she'd correctly guessed that Bill in his eagerness, would bank wide and lose ground. Jala Darshan, riding Hufflepuff's final leg, was an exceptional seeker and the switchback trail through the forest suited his flying style; the other two were deeply unsettled by his late presence. Approaching the grandstands, Jala fearlessly sank everything into his final spurt and inched into Gloria's lead.

Bill was several feet behind. He could see peoples' disappointed faces in the fast approaching grandstands, especially among a group of Slytherin supporters. The passion inside him flared and he wanted to release an almighty roar. Instead, with his jaw locked and eyes blazing, Bill aimed directly at the ground.

Those watching knew the less-experienced Slytherin rider, was on course for a bone-splintering accident. He'd lost control under intense pressure and now disappointment was turning to concern. It would surprise everyone to learn that the effect was intentional. Bill pulled back so hard on the broomstick, he was certain it would snap and send him cartwheeling into the crowd. His shadow came up to meet him, as he dropped to a foot above the ground; the lawns and grandstands were now too blurred to indicate his speed. The drop earned him a fragment of extra momentum, while above, the two riders were locked in their own private battle. Bill stretched every particle of his being horizontally, pipped the competition and ignited the victory cannon.

A triumph for Slytherin House, 1939 champions of the Hogwarts 800! A picture showing the tight finish, played and replayed over the front page of The Daily Prophet's evening edition. The next morning — through syndication — every magical publication across the globe ran the story.

Bill hauled his broom shaft up and cruised to a stop, chest screaming for oxygen and ears pounding to the rhythm of his heart. He was surrounded by the Slytherin crowd, who lifted him up and there at the front was Dickie Forrester, the Slytherin captain. Bill allowed himself a victory smile. A smile that suggested it wasn'tall down to him — but then again — it might be. This finale was far better than any he'd imagined, with the captain carrying him and insisting the crowd honour his performance. He wanted The Daily Prophet's photographer to snap him now, held aloft, but she was elsewhere. At that moment, while savouring his ecstatic reception, the wind was knocked from Bill's sails.

Forrester had passed Bill on to another senior and was enthusiastically raising Tom Riddle onto his shoulders; others were squabbling to share in the honour too. Like a rotating constellation, the crowd gravitated into Tom's orbit. Modesty, only made them more determined to celebrate his performance. Bill's smile was fixed and lacking any sincerity, while the flames of his victory were cruelly extinguished.

 _I just won the Hogwarts 800, not this… Nonentity._ Ravenclaw were holding their riders aloft, but now they wanted a piece of Tom too. With any pretence at a smile abandoned, Bill was stunned into silence; others might see it as fatigue, but inside him a light went out.

 _They're celebrating that odious, little speck?_

Someone told him Riddle was an orphan, after Bill was seen speaking to Tom at Slughorn's supper party. He decided then that Riddle wasn't friend material and it was probably best to avoid him in future.

 _Him!_ _That sad, little insect over there._ Soaking up the glory, taking the shine off his achievement. He'd not even handed Bill over with a lead. Something Riddle had received at the start of his leg, so he'd actually lost ground. Wild Bill Howard had just won the most prestigious broomstick race in the country — possibly the world — through bravery, commitment and exceptional poise. Somehow, this orphan that no relative wanted, was suddenly man of the moment?

 _What about his magical pedigree? Everyone knows Riddle has no lineage. He's an orphan!_ Stony-faced and screaming his inner monologue, Bill would uncover Tom's background. He'd make it his mission to bring this charlatan down and show him that — funnily enough — winning did matter. Coming from a respected family — strange as it may seem — mattered a great deal.

 _Woe betide him if he's anything less than pure blood. Dragging the good name of Hogwarts through the mud. The mud which passes for blood in his veins! How special can Riddle be, if his own family tossed him out with the rubbish?_

* * *

After potions and before lunch, Eudora was preparing to ambush Gary on his way back to Slytherin. She hurried ahead, then emerged from behind a pillar on the far side of the Fountain Courtyard, making Gary flinch.

'Bloody hell, Eudora! You can't just jump out on people. You'll give 'em a heart attack.'

'I didn't jump anywhere.' Eudora changed tack, 'can I ask you something?'

'I suppose.'

'Not here. At the end of the covered footbridge?'

'All right, just no more jumping out.'

Several boys from Hufflepuff first form were behind them, one of whom wolf-whistled.

'Who's your little girlfriend, Box?'

'Gary pretended to laugh. 'Ha ha, no please. Please stop, I'm dying over here.'

'Aww, look, we've discovered their secret,' the tallest one, Billy Ewart said. He rubbed his hands in front of Eudora's face.

'Your cheeks are giving me a suntan, Pippincraft.'

Eudora's face was burning and she could only stare at a fixed point in the distance. Hoping they'd get bored and move on.

'Pack it in, Ewart.' Gary pushed Billy away.

He and Eudora crossed the footbridge without speaking. As they walked, creaking planks filled the silence between them.

'Fire away _,_ ' Gary said, 'or we'll be late for lunch and this youngster's had a tough morning.' He patted his stomach like a proud father.

Eudora hesitated and swallowed.

'Don't be cross, because I'm so sorry I did it. I really am.' Eudora stared at the planks below her feet. 'I took something that didn't belong to me. From the bedroom in Tom's house. Not to keep. I don't know why I did, I can't explain it to myself, _even_. So, I picked it up and before I had time to think why, we were back here at Hogwarts.'

'And.' Gary's voice was harsher now. Tom would definitely know they'd searched through his possessions; apparently they were _borrowing_ them too.

Eudora squeezed her eyes shut. Admitting she'd done wrong was a new experience for her.

'It was a wooden heart, part of a necklace.'

'And you thought it was a gift for you?' Gary interrupted.

'No! No, I'd never think that.' Now she could add lying to the list.

'Hmm.' Gary wanted to know why she was suddenly sharing this information.

Eudora composed herself.

'Inside the wooden heart was an orb: a small glass ball with something moving inside. I didn't know what it was, so I wrote to my aunt. She's much younger than my mother and a research professor at The Phoenix Institute (she'd mentioned it again)! I can ask her things I wouldn't ask my parents, so I asked what it might be and this morning she returned my owl.'

'You've got to put it back, whatever she said.' Gary's face hardened.

'Wait. Please, for a moment. She said it's an _orb of anamnesis_. A way to store memories, popular in medieval practice, but rare today. It looks like there are three memories in there and…. Well, we can extract them without breaking the glass.'

'We? Who said anything about we? _Far_ as I understand it, this is all your doing.'

'My auntie says it's not dangerous, it's just fallen from use. There's a spell she uncovered in the Mirror Library at Trinity: _accessum memoria_. It'll be easy enough to draw the memories out and return them, so we should do that. Then put it back.'

'Why do we have to look?' Thinking for a moment, instead of reacting, Gary saw this as a way of accessing Tom's thoughts. It might reveal whether Tom was suspicious of Gary and then he could stop worrying about it all the time.

Eudora made it sound obvious.

'Tom never asks for our help and we think he has everything worked out. Perhaps he hasn't? Perhaps instead of him thinking about us, we could help him for a change?' She was painting herself as a morally-upright friend and committed helper. Not the self-interested fibber, she felt like.

Although Eudora had wanted to know Tom's inner secrets, there was genuine concern too. Nobody secretly owned houses, stashed a lifetime's fortune under the floorboards and kept silent about it. Stories were spreading about his selfless behaviour in the Hogwarts 800 and Tom, everyone agreed, was an honest and trustworthy individual. Did he not deserve a helping hand? What could possibly be going on behind the scenes? Whichever way you looked at it, the two sides to him didn't add up.

'All right, but we put it back straight after.' Gary might also find out where the galleons came from.

Eudora folded her bottom lip under her front teeth and nodded.

After tea they left separately, but met on the cart track to Hogsmeade. Being a Tuesday evening, the village was out of bounds to juniors, so they had to be careful. As Eudora approached, Gary grabbed her hand and dragged her to the edge of the wood; then they ducked behind a hazel bush. No one — except her parents and aunt — had ever held her hand before.

'Dotty Dot.' Gary whispered.

Eudora's heart rose to the back of her throat. Professor Cronin walked past singing softly to herself: a popular muggle tune about _meeting again_.

Gary realised he was still holding Eudora's hand and let go.

Cronin was in no hurry, but eventually she disappeared from view and they were able to continue through the woods. Just outside the village they discovered a clearing — hidden from view by dense, woodland ferns — so they faced one another. Gary thought it was best that they experience the memories one at a time, while the other kept watch. The Dark Forest was the obvious choice, since they could continue to Tom's straight afterwards. Once there, they would return the orb and use the forest as cover for the journey back.

Eudora held up the orb and took her wand out,'accessum memoria.' Nothing happened.

'Give it over.' Gary took the orb, 'you've got to be committed. Say it like you feel it, not just mean memoria.'

A thin filament attached itself to the end of his wand. Politely, he held it to Eudora's temple and allowed the thread to burrow beneath her skin.

Eudora span wildly, before coming to rest in a dusty front room. On closer inspection it was an office, with a desk in the corner that overlooked a cobbled street. The walls were oak panelled and the room smelled of cinder from an unswept fireplace. Tom was standing with his arms behind his back, facing a man holding a sheet of paper; it was an acceptance letter from Hogwarts and Eudora felt an ache in her heart. This was one of Tom's precious memories and it reminded her how little she knew about his life before school. The man was striking a bargain with Tom; he'd let him go to Hogwarts, if he helped with a certain task. Eudora listened and decided that the transaction sounded shady. Black drapes closed around her, before a bulb illuminated what she presumed was Tom's, tiny room. He was re-reading the letter and for the briefest instant, he smiled; a glimmer of hope that his time at Wool's, might finally be over.

Eudora was standing beside Gary. She teased the memory from her temple and passed it over to him with the tip of her wand. He became motionless, experiencing the memory in a place where time passed more quickly. Eudora's lower lip trembled, before she pressed her lips together; for someone who'd had such a tough life, Tom never complained. He would always have her friendship, whether he needed it or not.

Inside a minute, Gary emerged from the memory and teased it out with his wand tip. He was keen to get this part over with quickly, then _return the damned thing_.

Eudora extracted the next memory, while the previous one hung limply from Gary's wand. They performed some manual shuffling to ensure the two didn't get mixed up.

Eudora had an overwhelming sensation that she would enjoy the next memory.

It was the potions classroom and there she was! _Oh dear_. She looked so strange from the back, plus her pigtails really stood out. _I look like a five-year-old_ was her first thought, before she decided a new hairstyle was long overdue. Eudora watched, as the memory version of herself glanced over at Tom; yes, she was already infatuated with him, even at this early stage.

Tom was demonstrating his potion to the class. She could see Slughorn now, thumbs in his lapels, chest expanded and nose aloft: ready to witness a healthy dose of misguided, youthful optimism.

'Delacombe, Speelman. Keep it down you daft apoths.' Slughorn's attention returned to the experiment.

She watched as Tom encouraged him to rub the potion into his forehead, followed by his theatrical responses to Tom's questions. The potion itself was elegant, but during this viewing she noticed something else: his showmanship. How the crowd fell in behind him, right through to conclusion. She felt a tear form in the corner of one eye, as she imagined how precious this memory was to Tom; where he'd come from, the setbacks and the hope of a better life at Hogwarts. You would never know about his disadvantaged youth, because he was quietly and without fuss, engineering his own success.

As the memory faded, Eudora smiled and passed it to Gary, then she extracted the final memory and composed herself. Eudora suspected the order they were released by the orb, was not random. After Gary had returned, she allowed the final memory to tease its way into her mind.

She was in a forest clearing at night and a fiery orb hung just below the treetops. Tom was beside a fallen tree — looking up — as something came tumbling down from the branches above. The _something_ formed into a man wearing a green tweed jacket and kilt; Eudora knew she couldn't be seen, but still hid behind a tree. The man in the kilt smiled: he was enjoying the confrontation. His smile also revealed sharp teeth; the sharp teeth of a vampire. _The_ vampire! Eudora's eyebrows rose to somewhere near her hairline. Tom had been there when the vampire struck? _How?_ Her eyes widened further when Tom transfigured into a bird of prey. Eudora had no idea he could transfigure; many witches and wizards never acquired the skill. _He's not even taking transfiguration!_

Eudora's mind was now drowning in unanswered questions. The vampire leapt fifty feet towards another figure, chained in iron manacles. It was Gary! _What. Is. Happening?_ She thought she knew what went on around her, but clearly that wasn't the case. Gary was about to experience the memory too and what would he make of it? Before Eudora could concern herself with that, the bird plummeted from above and transfigured back into Tom. He held his wand in the offensive stance: one hand to block, with the wand hand poised above and behind, like a scorpion tail. Tom struck the vampire's flesh with bolts from his wand, but the wounds did not bleed.

Herbie Peniakoff came swooping into the clearing and withdrew his wand; while Tom was thumped backwards by the lightning-fast vampire and pinned to the forest floor. Peniakoff stunned the beast, then he and Tom exchanged several words. Had the creature vanished? No, he was running towards them at tremendous speed and struck Peniakoff before Eudora could react. Herbie sailed backwards — unconscious — and tumbled awkwardly. The vampire turned its attention to Tom, who had his eyes closed and was reciting an incantation. The galloping creature then floated — motionless — a few feet above the undergrowth; no, it was still running, but at a fraction of its usual speed. Tom's expression hardened as he tripped the vampire, then a blue, plasma bolt erupted from his wand, knocking it out. Normal speed resumed and the creature cartwheeled through the bushes, bouncing off a tree trunk. What happened next, plagued Eudora's conscience for many months afterwards.

Tom extracted Herbie's memory, destroying it with a backward flick of the wrist. He teased another from his temple and introduced it into Herbie's mind. Then — with difficulty — he propped him against the fallen trunk.

'Bombarda!'He destroyed the chains holding Gary with his wand and released a plume of green light through the tree line: it formed a skull, with a serpent probing from its mouth. Eudora crept closer to get a better view; Tom was catching his breath and checking himself for injury. The scene dipped to black, then a man appeared with a pony and cart. Tom knew him and to her disbelief, they encased the vampire in an iron box. Shortly afterwards, the man left.

Tom made sure Gary was unhurt, before sending a torrent of red sparks into the sky; setting the treetops ablaze and causing a colossal explosion. She remembered hearing it on the night in question. Everyone at Hogwarts had scrambled for the windows, hanging out to see the distant forest glowing orange. They all assumed it was a lightning strike at first, until the story of Herbie's duel with the vampire circulated. _But Herbie isn't the Lord Protector. Tom is._

Tom hobbled to his broomstick, nursing several injuries and kicked upwards into the trees, heading away from school. Then the scene shimmered and fell to the ground in a waterfall of light.

Unable to speak, she stared vacantly at Gary and passed the memory over. Eudora would wait until he'd experienced it, before the inevitable questions began; though he was clearly unconscious and hadn't lied to her. Perhaps he knew already? Tom and Gary were close friends.

Gary guided the final memory to his temple, but already suspected its contents. Nothing to do but face the music.

Surprisingly, when Gary returned from the memory, Eudora didn't say anything; she just started walking towards Hogsmeade, so he followed. She was either too angry to speak, or believed Gary had slept through the whole incident. He really should say something, but the words escaped him.

Eudora returned the memories to the orb of anamnesis while they walked. It was preferable to making eye contact.

There was a growing familiarity about the path leading to Tom's back door and Eudora checked herself. _I've never actually been invited here._ Gary unlocked the back door and they let themselves in. Cooking smells lingered in the kitchen; someone was either in the cottage, or had recently left. There was also a plate with food scraps on it. They looked at one another for the first time in half an hour; Gary flicked his eyes upstairs, but Eudora wanted to come back later. In truth, she never wanted to come here again and certainly not uninvited.

Gary checked the front room, which was empty; the person was either not in, or upstairs. They climbed the staircase, then shifted their weight across the landing, taking care not to squeak any floorboards. Gary opened the bedroom door, convinced their luck was about to change. He imagined a disappointed Tom on the other side, shaking his head.

'My closest friends have returned, come in, please do. Have a rummage. My things are just over there, so help yourself to whatever you want. Don't mind me.'

The bedroom was empty so they shifted the wardrobe from beside the wall and lifted the floorboards. Everything was where it had been, but this made Gary more suspicious. He nodded at Eudora, suggesting she put the heart back, but now the moment was here, she wasn't so keen to part with it. The heart was responsible for unlocking powerful emotions; the kind she'd never experienced before.

'Eudora!' Gary hissed. 'Get it done.'

Eudora replaced the wooden heart where she found it: under the floor and against the wall. They replaced the loose boards and heaved the wardrobe one corner at a time. The back door swung open. Gary stopped moving, looked at the wardrobe and with adrenaline-fuelled strength, pushed it back into place. A long, drawn-out squeak from its dragging feet, turned Eudora's blood to ice; then Gary grabbed her shoulder and they opened the door without pausing. _This place must have revolving doors!_ Gary thought, before he bundled Eudora across the landing and through the opposite door.

It was a lavatory: cast iron and porcelain, with a floor of varnished planks. They slipped behind the ajar door and Gary pulled it towards them, giving the impression that the room was empty. Eudora — without Gary — would still be in the bedroom, wringing her hands and preparing to confess. Someone came striding up the stairs two at a time and flung back the bedroom door; Eudora wanted to put her hands over her eyes, but the door was pinning them to the wall. The person in the bedroom must be Tom, because he paused and took a circular path, probably checking for signs of activity. Thoroughly.

A period of time passed: perhaps ten minutes, perhaps ten seconds. Tom closed the door, hesitated then went downstairs to the front room; muffled voices suggested that at least one other person was in the living room. Eudora became aware how close she was to Gary, but continued shallow breathing and trying not to move the door.

'Time to go,' Gary whispered in her ear. They decompressed themselves from the wall and crept down the stairs. At the bottom Gary turned right towards the back parlour and opened the door carefully. Eudora flared her eyes in anger, _has he lost his mind?_ Gary ignored her and slipped into the room; she either joined him, or waited alone in the kitchen. Being in the room wasn't enough for Gary, so he reached for the serving hatch doors. Gary worked them with the patience of a surgeon; a narrow slit — difficult to see from a distance — allowed him to peer in with one eye. His breathing became audible.

Eudora leaned forwards and whispered.

'You're mouth breathing again.' Gary drew his head back and stepped away, leaving a vacant slot for Eudora to occupy. She pushed her face against the slit, allowing her right eye to get as close as possible; the shock of what she saw was so great, her hips and the tops of her legs buckled. She was about to collapse and her time at Hogwarts — surely — was now at an end.

It was Dippet. The headmaster of Hogwarts, here in Tom Riddle's front room. He was talking to someone wearing a cowl: the kind usually worn by elderly witches. Their conversation was difficult to follow, Dippet was partly in profile and partly had his back to them; Eudora wished that the woman would remove her hood. However, in life, one should always be careful what one wishes for. The woman removed her cowl and revealed the face of a young boy. A dead, young boy.

Iain Calder was standing in front of Headmaster Dippet, engaged in a whispered conversation. He'd been killed by the vampire and that much had not changed; Iain was clearly dead. Or more accurately: undead. The vampire should have taken him as one of its own, but McQuillan had long since departed in an iron box. Nothing in Eudora's imagination, could link the headmaster to a vampire and an undead former pupil; both currently in the front room of a wealthy, orphan's house. It was so far outside her realm of understanding, that not one part of it gelled. She wanted to run away as fast as she could, even if it meant tumbling into the gorge. Her knowledge of how the world worked, had been upended; Eudora had to get out before she was sick. Gary took another look and the sight of Iain sent a bolt of alarm up his spine. He was saying something, so Gary pressed his ear to the gap.

'I don't want to feel like this any more.'

'I'll do whatever I can, but remember you're never alone.' Dippet wanted to console the boy.

Gary stepped back, also pale and scared. He held Eudora's clammy hand and led her out of the parlour, through the back door and away from Hogsmeade. They may have made a noise, but neither remembered anything about their flight from the cottage. Reaching the safety of the undergrowth beside the Dark Forest, they ran; running until their sides ached and lungs burned. Slower and slower, panting around the towers of the curtain wall and under the Firebolt Gate.

'We were at the owlery if anyone asks.' Gary squeezed every word out with difficulty. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

Eudora just nodded before they parted company. She felt hollow and her body was still cringing in shock; everything she knew, was a lie. Overcome by crushing disappointment, her chest felt mechanical and unresponsive. Eudora changed for bed early that night, got the teddy bear she kept hidden in her locker, then slipped between the sheets. Gripping it tightly she allowed her tears to come, knowing that eventually she would begin to feel better. For now, the world was a strange place: full of strange and unrecognisable people.

* * *

The Midsummer Supper was held on the Saturday before the last day of term. Partly to feast, partly to celebrate the passing of another year and partly to honour outstanding student achievements. Informally it was also known as _the morning of dread_ among Hogwarts students.

During breakfast on the day of the supper, school exam results were posted. They were pinned to the main noticeboard in the Great Hall foyer, where the maximum number of pupils would see them. There was talk over the years of sending results by owl — to spare those who had not performed well — but it never caught on and most Hogwarts academics saw it as unnecessary mollycoddling.

While everyone ate breakfast, first one, then several and before you knew it, all exam results were on display. The sheets were written in a copperplate cursive script, using a gold-tipped quill; the subject and form were written at the top, for example: _Potions: First Form_. Below that was a list of pupil names with percentages, in rank order. Lines representing levels of achievement were to the right: distinction, merit, pass, fail and the dreaded unclassified. The higher the percentage, the better; however, the banding represented intervention by the school. _Pass_ would result in extra attention and possibly extra prep. _Fail_ would require a re-sit at the beginning of next term, which took the shine off your summer break. _Unclassified_ meant you should consider a more suitable subject — or in extreme cases — a more suitable school. Although rare, the prospect of humiliation in front of your classmates, encouraged most students to tackle revision early.

Some pupils, especially the brighter ones, might take an early breakfast and happen to be in the foyer as the first results went up. After ensuring their grades were impressive enough, a period of showboating would follow: greeting new arrivals to the noticeboard by commiserating or congratulating them. The surprise was ruined by saying something like: _Janice, not too bad, 55% is still a pass._ O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s — being more important — were sent by owl during August.

Gary leaned towards Tom at the breakfast table. 'What's _our_ George Dennison smiling at?'

George liked to levitate his tray and follow it at mealtimes, with hands deep in his pockets. He was frequently reminded not to, but did it anyway. George was described by some as: _so laid back, he's horizontal_. Damien Trotter — George's friend — was alongside on his broom-chair. He'd had an unfortunate accident at seven years of age: tangling with a werewolf seen at the bottom of the Trotters' garden. Unwisely, Damien had decided to tease it, so the werewolf took exception. And both his legs. Now he had to wait till he was eighteen, before receiving his mechanical replacements. The broom-chair had a leather padded seat and two half-size brooms, attached below on either side. Damien, with George's encouragement, often streaked along corridors above the students' heads. Most staff turned a blind eye; after all, it was just harmless fun, but there was hardly a more mischievous pair at Hogwarts.

Gary shouted over, 'Hey George, _what'_ you smiling at?'

'Marks are up. Potions, _muggle studs_ and _transfig_.'

'What d'you get?' Gary asked.

George shrugged, disinterested.

'Dunno.' He smiled and sat down. 'They'll still be there after breakfast.'

Gary shook his head.

'George Dennison. What a character.' He turned to Tom, 'Reckon we should take a look at the board?'

Tom was keen to see his marks, but didn't want to appear keen. He'd hold out for a while and let the crowd simmer down.

'Perhaps in a minute.'

'All right,' Gary said, 'I can see you're dying inside Riddle. Let's get it over with.'

The noticeboard was divided into eight sections, with both upper and lower boards. Seven for the year groups and one for staff. The staff board also had a corner available to the headmaster, which had announcements like: _Staff meeting: Thursday 6th July, 1.15pm moved to 1.30pm (sorry)._ The lower board in each section, was for activities posted by pupils (with permission). For example: _Choir practice: Boathouse Small Annexe, 4 to 4.30pm, Tuesdays & Thursdays. Names to Brenda Talbot-Rice, 5R. See you there and don't forget your toad!_ The upper boards were encased in glass, opened by staff key and all locks were immune to magical entry.

As Tom approached, the crowd parted and he experienced a brief crisis of confidence; were they quiet because he'd been a disappointment? _Potions: First Form_ and at the top: _Tom Riddle…...92%_. Three further results had also been added; Tom received 94% for charms, 89% for history of magic, but it was muggle studies that had everyone cooing: 97%. Tom smiled, but with discomfort; he wanted to do well, but not to alienate his classmates. The next highest mark in potions was 71%.

Gary was still staring at his transfiguration mark of 54%.

'I've only gone and passed it, Tommy!' Whooping with delight Gary could relax over the summer.

Herbology and astronomy brought marks in the high eighties for Tom and arithmancy, an impressive 91%. It was highly unusual for a pupil at Hogwarts to receive a mark in the nineties, especially after their first year of study. You might have to go back decades to find several marks in the nineties. To get four in the nineties and three in the eighties? Not in Dippet's lifetime.

Gary leaned in towards Tom, 'Slughorn'll try and adopt you now. Just you wait.' He put his arm around Tom's shoulder and parted the crowd.

'Make way people. Genius coming through.'

The Great Hall was decorated in garlands of forest flowers and songbirds flew to and fro among the upper rafters. Enchanted birds — as opposed to the real thing — which proved a distracting nuisance during previous suppers. A quintet of stringed instruments was playing in the corner: bows sawing with no visible means of support and the four houses were seated beneath their colour banners. A painful time for many, where notices were given and prizes were awarded, before finally — at last — the eating could begin. Some claimed the Midwinter Supper was the crowning jewel of feasts, with its many rich, spicy and enticing dishes, but the summer food was lighter and fresher, with more zing and variety. Also — it was worth mentioning — the puddings were every bit as spectacular.

The prizes included some to celebrate achievement, others to encourage green shoots and some to mark a departure. Gerry Finkelbaum was a professor from Yonkers, near New York, who'd taken a tour of Britain and Ireland during Queen Victoria's reign. Enjoying it so much, he decided to stay. It may have been the quaint traditions and rich history, but most knew it was the rain. Nothing bewitched the man like a morning of strong rain, especially when it came in sideways. He'd discovered Hogwarts during a Highlands rain safari and never left; now, after seventy years as a teacher, he was retiring to Connemara, on Ireland's west coast. Where he was assured of a regular deluge: morning, noon and night.

Finkelbaum was presented with an _indoor cloud engine_ by Dippet, constructed from brass in seventeenth-century Holland. The charm which powered it, came from the East Indies and was lost to today's magical practitioners. However, the engine still worked. If a sequence of levers were pulled and the correct dials clicked into place, the machine could expel a cloud the size of a small sheep. The cloud would then deposit a cup's worth of water, over whoever was standing beneath it, so Finkelbaum tested it at once and now his generous beard was sopping wet. He parted his hair to reveal a jubilant face and thanked the school for their thoughtfulness.

Vivian was presented with _The Victrix Scholarum_ and Tom with _The Victor Scholarum;_ awarded to the girl and boy who academically excelled in each year group. Dippet added: '...some of whose shine, rubs off on us all.'

Gary stared as Dippet shook Tom's hand and exchanged words with him. What were they saying to one another? Were they partners in some enterprise of the undead? It was unnerving to watch.

Slughorn — also on stage — pumped Tom's hand furiously and showed no signs of stopping. Dippet touched Slughorn's shoulder and parted his lips, but nothing needed to be said.

The headmaster finally raised his hands and bellowed: 'let the Midsummer Supper, begin!'

Gary fell on his food, selecting nibbles from several plates at once. Individual cold pies of gammon and mustard; venison and cranberry, plus spiced pork and apple. Breads: Irish sourdough; pumpkin brioche; rustic boule; vine tomato and olive rolls; challah; five-grain fermented crust and pimento-stuffed flatbread. Cold platters of honey-roast ham; Leerdammer cheese; roast beef; jamón Ibérico; bresaola; sage stuffed loin of pork with pickled quince jelly; smoked turkey and corned beef. Savoury tarts and flans of tomato, courgette and home-grown peppers; caramelised onion; seared mushroom and artichoke heart with lemon. Celery and walnut salad with fresh mayonnaise; sweet gem lettuce; rocket and watercress from the forest allotments and sliced tomatoes in a basil dressing. Salted crisps; nuts; game chips and cocktail sticks of cheddar cheese, with pineapple or silverskin onions.

Barbecued apple-wood chicken; poached salmon with cucumber scales and a dill-lemon hollandaise; Dublin Bay prawns with homemade tartare; Hebridean lobster tails; savoury potato wedges and crispy chips. For dessert: _nightshade cake_ — chocolate, cream, black cherry and beetroot — strawberry flan; clementine sponge with shatter icing; mint-choc-chip ice cream; scones with Devon butter and Cornish clotted cream; Battenberg cake; fruit salad and elderflower jelly. A model of Hogwarts, made entirely of Swiss rolls; caramel cream slices; dolly-mixture fairy cakes; triple-chocolate brownies; fruit loaf; malt loaf; tea loaf and gingerbread. Highland shortbread; drop-scone stacks with fresh blueberries; honey flapjacks and iced gems.

These were just the foods Gary managed to sample. There were others, but bow out now and he might avoid a sleepless night, groaning with regret. He gently beat his chest with one fist; the quince jelly was already starting to repeat on him.

Bill Howard ate little at the Midsummer Supper; he was far too busy brooding and scheming. Taking regular sips of pumpkin juice and barely aware of the groaning platters, he focussed his attention along a narrow tunnel towards Tom Riddle. Since the Hogwarts 800, Bill had been wallowing in self-pity, much to the irritation of his close friends. He found it impossible not to. A day hardly passed where some compliment directed at him, did not end with a reference to Tom Riddle. _Good lad. Sporting of him, helping another team like that._

Bill, unless he was very much mistaken, had won the Hogwarts 800? Lately he'd started shrugging in his own company, so concerned friends asked if he was talking to an unseen spirit roaming the school. He would just sneer, turn his back and walk away.

Bill was seated among his clan; a royal subject attended by its worker drones. Perhaps not all drones. Frank Merryweather — his first lieutenant — could think for himself and came from a prestigious magical family: the Merryweathers of Llanrwst, in Wales. They were descendants of the Wizards of Caernarfon: advisors, teachers and guardians of the Celtic Kings. Which gave Bill an idea.

Frank's family were exceptionally wealthy, even by Bill's extravagant standards and his father was a major shareholder in the Prophet. With some arm-twisting, perhaps a story might leak over the holidays? A suggestion of cheating? Followed by an examination of Riddle's lack of connection, lack of magical breeding and his unhealthy, muggle persuasions. Then the final coup de grâce: an orphanage upbringing and confirmation that at least one, if not both parents, were muggles. To what depths had Hogwarts sunk? Plus, muggle sympathisers were thin on the ground, thanks to their unquenchable thirst for global war. A war which threatened to engulf the magical world, whether they liked it or not.

A smile — absent since the fateful broomstick race — returned, thanks to his spiteful plan. Bill would have his revenge and that muggle washout, with his dusty old books and threadbare robes, would find himself alone and despised. The field of glory would be his: the honourable William Benedict Peter Brísingamen Howard. Frank noticed Bill's smile, leaned in and they put their heads together.

'Does your father still keep shares in the Prophet?'

Frank barely nodded, meaning: _of course._

'Good. I've got an interesting story for them.' Bill winked at his friend.

* * *

Eudora had sensible plans before supper, of sticking to modest portions; _you're not a pig, snuffling around in a_ sty, but somehow the euphoria of the evening swept her along. That night she lay in bed, patiently waiting for her food to go down. Eudora had done well in her exams, two marks in the mid-seventies and five in the high sixties. Vivian had performed better and Betty not so well, with two marks in the low fifties. She was excused fuss and attention because of her transfer from Beauxbatons, but still felt battered and bruised. Betty restyled Eudora's hair for the supper: pinning her plaits up again and securing them with two of her dragonfly barrettes. Eudora got several looks when she entered the Great Hall and Gary Box shouted over. 'Nice 'do, Pippincraft!' She smiled in the darkness.

Eudora glanced over at Vivian, who was turned towards the wall and judging by her gentle movement, probably asleep. She planned to wait another half hour, just to be sure. Eudora pressed her stomach and pulled a face. _Please, stop thinking about food_.

At a quarter to one, Eudora slid back the covers and found her slippers below. She picked up her linen washbag, which provided some sort of excuse if she ran into anyone. Hiding it in the bathrooms on the way past, Eudora hurried down the tower staircase. Then she crossed the viaduct to the main building and climbed the stairs to the seventh floor. There, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, she walked to and fro three times, eyes closed and deep in concentration. An arch appeared in the wall: a relief pattern, which receded with a rumbling of heavy stone and formed a doorway. The door assumed the grain and texture of wood, then finally the colour. All movement ceased and the entrance to the Room of Requirement stood before her.

The room she entered had lattice windows which overlooked the school grounds. Some rolls of dusty fabric were abandoned in one corner and at first glance, it appeared unpromising. Aunt Finola had mentioned the room in her recent owl. In truth, she'd mentioned a great deal besides, as was her way, but The Room Of Requirement roused Eudora's interest. This was her third visit in a week; one day she might worry about her obsessive behaviour, but not today. Eudora's heart bumped erratically as she crossed the room and tingles of excitement travelled down to her fingertips. She pulled the dust cover down with difficulty, then faced the Mirror of Erised.

Her smile broadened, her shoulders went back and she moistened her lips in expectation. The magic was seeping through Eudora and any remaining reservations she had, were abandoned.

In the mirror she saw a confident woman in her twenties, wearing round sunglasses. A Chanel-print headscarf complemented her dress and the white gloves she'd always dreamed of owning, lent her a chic and sophisticated appearance. _Perhaps she's a little pretty too_ , Eudora thought. From the centre, her eyes explored the surrounding landscape. She was standing near the top of a hill: the Hill of Tara, in County Meath and behind were low hills, fields and hedgerows. The sky was pale blue along the horizon, with laundry-fresh clouds above. Beside her was a man. A handsome, tall man, who was holding her gloved hand and they appeared easy in one another's company. His hair flopped in the breeze, so he raised a hand to sweep it back; the gesture was familiar and any onlooker in doubt, would recognise the man as Tom Riddle.

Eudora's eyes explored his face and features, which were becoming familiar after several visits. He raised her hand to give it a peck, so she removed a glove and there it was! The ring on her finger. He was telling the world that he wanted her beside him, for as long...? For as long as time would allow. Eudora's lungs were flooded with warmth as she revelled in this simple idea. Standing completely still and letting the vision of a perfect future, wash over her. The air tasted sweet: of nectar and clipped grass, as the world stopped turning on this perfect, lone hilltop. Finally, Eudora would move on for more, but this was typical of her character. If a cake had a cherry on top — she would eat around it — saving the best till last.

Her view widened and there, in a white pinafore, was a young girl, holding onto a bunch of daisies and running between their legs. At this point her heart was so full, it struggled to beat.

'Pandora,' she clucked, 'you'll exhaust yourself with all your running around.'

Pandora ignored her and continued exploring. Eudora would look at Tom and smile; both blissfully in love and happy to indulge their daughter's inquisitive nature. Life could and would not — she suspected — ever get better than this.

Then guilt would unstopper and begin to flow. She would chastise herself for sneaking around and encouraging impossible dreams. Numbly replacing the dust sheet over the mirror, Eudora would shut the door behind her and return to the washrooms. Back in bed, with her secret safe, she felt better; then over several days, a hole would develop. She needed to feel that punch of joy in her chest again. _Even_ , she admitted, _if it's nothing more than the pipe dream, of a silly schoolgirl._

* * *

Dippet strode confidently along the corridor surrounding the Fountain Courtyard, then he paused to peek through the windows of the dragon science classroom. It was after one in the morning and the chances of anyone actually being in the dragon-science classroom, were beyond remote, but an itch of curiosity should always be scratched. Continuing to Slytherin house, he hurried down the stairs and approached the first-form boys dormitory. Outside, Dippet checked both directions furtively; then one hand slipped into his robes and he removed something.

It was a hand mirror, which he raised to eye-level. Looking at his reflection, the man transformed into Tom Riddle: the features, clothing and body merging, like a fist closing. The mirror had proved useful of late, after remaining hidden and unused for several terms. Besides which, adopting Dippet's form would have proved too problematic at first. Now, after nearly a year at Hogwarts, Tom had a better insight into his behaviour and mannerisms. If he ran into another teacher as Dippet, he would hold up a finger and say: 'forgive me, I have an important matter which cannot be delayed,' his stock phrase. If that teacher saw the real Dippet later, they were unlikely to mention the encounter; reminding someone of their forgetfulness was impolite, after all. Alternatively, Dippet would nod like a pecking hen, whispering to himself before having an epiphany and rushing off: _a thimbleful of narwhal blubber should do it!_ He was a brilliant man, but hopelessly eccentric and a gift for mimics.

Lately, Dippet had been a necessary disguise; Tom's infamy after the Hogwarts 800 was widespread. Everyone wanted to congratulate him, except perhaps a handful of resentful sixth formers. He had many years ahead to gild his reputation — unlike them — so his actions were seen by some as selfish. He was experimenting with dark magic too, the kind that would bring instant disapproval from teaching staff and senior pupils, so the Woodsman's Cabin had proved a useful bolt-hole. The cabin, a quarter mile into the Haunted Wood, was probably the least appealing location to Hogwarts pupils. A place for pranks and dares if you were older perhaps; because the ghosts and spirits roaming this part of the forest, were the unfriendly kind.

The next evening, Thursday, was also a full moon. Tom would rarely take a trip to the cabin on consecutive nights and never during a full, or new moon: in case he was seen. However, the end of year was fast approaching and lately, investigations into The Chamber of Secrets had taken an unusual turn. Having revealed the entrance using The Map of the Mind, there was a major impediment at the base of the stairs. A granite door so thick, rapping it with your knuckles produced no echo, just the sound of knuckles buckling. The door had no handle, latch or hinge and was buried behind curtains of spider webbing.

When reading a history of the castle, mention was made of Salazar Slytherin being a native Parseltongue speaker: the language of serpents and their relatives. The snakes carved into the staircase leading down, were significant rather than for decorative purposes; as he'd first thought. Nothing he could think of, made any impression on the door.

When Tom discovered Parselmouths inherited their ability, he wanted to punch the air, but it was lunchtime and the library was full of students. He knew he'd always spoken the language and his dreams of swimming along the Thames, were probably not dreams at all. Once, on the North Greenwich peninsula, Tom had cut across the wharves of Bugsby's Marsh, picking his way among the buildings. He'd noticed the time on a clock above the sugar manufactory and broke into a run, taking a left between two warehouses. Without knowing how, he navigated through unfamiliar brickfields and arrived beside the tram stop at Manor Wall. He'd thought himself lucky at the time, but the area was just part of his nocturnal range. Tom knew every street and passageway in the docks, without being consciously aware of it.

A person did not speak Parseltongue, so much as project it with emotion and it required an empty mind, to prevent other thoughts from interfering with the delivery. Speaking from the heart, rather than the head, emotional urges were exhaled like breath. The mouth, tongue and voice box took over, translating the urge into a stream of hisses, long esses and hard consonants. In this way, sound was pulled like a thread: unspooling from the back of the throat.

Neither did you learn it. Understanding Parseltongue was possible, but speech was restricted to descendants of the Slytherin bloodline. Tom deduced that his mother and the Gaunts were related to Salazar Slytherin, but imagining himself as The Heir to Slytherin, was probably taking matters a step too far. A step too far for simple logic, but Tom's instinct told him otherwise. For the time being he would settle for having a family history, a magical heritage and the greatest wizard who'd ever lived, as a distant relative.

There was just one problem. When he'd liberated the map, then spoken to the Rabisu, Parseltongue had just come to him; he wanted something and without knowing how, it arrived. When he stood in front of the granite door and encouraged the language to take over: nothing came to him; his mind was utterly blank and it stayed that way. After all the effort he'd put in over the year, his journey had stalled.

Tom stopped thinking and focussed; he was still passing through the pupils' accommodation block and would have to stay alert. One of the problems with imitating Dippet, Tom discovered, was that he might be seen leaving the school buildings after dark. Something not in the headmaster's nature. 'Why should I leave Hogwarts? Everything I could possibly need is here,' was his usual reason for never taking holidays.

It was one thirty on a Friday morning when he crossed the clock courtyard beside the footbridge; the most exposed part of his journey. Dippet would never be here at this hour. The sharp aroma of pine resin rose up from the forests below — clearing his head — then he looked back before entering the footbridge. There were no lights burning above.

Moonlight had sprinkled silver onto the landscape, while the loch shivered in silence. Entering the Haunted Wood, Tom illuminated his wand tip; the Woodsman's Cabin stood in dense thicket, where darkness was near total.

At half-past two, Tom finished his incantations and was talking to a spirit who'd died during the plague of 1353. It was said to have resulted from a dark-wizard curse in Persia, performed at the request of an exiled king. The curse could not be contained and spread as a plague across Europe, killing seventy-five million souls in five years. The spirit was a farmer — Gawter Le Fyss — who died within three days of exposure to the plague; leaving behind a wife and seven children: five of whom joined him shortly afterwards.

Le Fyss was still angry, even now and spoke in a broad, Scottish accent which Tom struggled with. He hated people with a passion and was committed to haunting anyone he came across. A wraith in origin, he'd developed into an exceptional poltergeist, with the ability to possess those who were emotionally vulnerable. At first he tried to possess Tom, but Tom's charm: _the chainmail of enduring hope_ , was too powerful to penetrate. Tom had tolerated Le Fyss because he'd been around so long and may have information about The Chamber of Secrets. The bad tempered farmer was a long shot and Tom's patience had run out.

'I'll _naw help ye_ laddie, but tell you what I can _dae_. Persistent dreams of terror, for all eternity. How's that grab _ye_?'

Tom flourished his wand and Le Fyss was gone. He would never forgive Tom's impertinence, so questioning him any further was pointless. There was a knock at the door — lower down — near the latch.

Tom opened a crack and the person removed their cowl. Iain Calder's ghostly complexion was still visible, despite the pitch darkness and he presented a face devoid of emotion. Tom invited him in and stood aside, allowing Iain to cross the threshold.

Without a vampire as mentor, Tom had taken on the role and their meetings at the cabin or his cottage in Hogsmeade, were now regular. Tonight Iain would require feeding, so Tom rolled up his sleeves and headed into the Haunted Wood alone. He returned thirty minutes later, with a fawn slung over one shoulder; Tom could not perform the killing curse for fear of discovery, so used his wand to sling fist-sized stones at the deer's head.

He set the fawn down and Iain's pale face, flushed. His eyes widened with lust and unable to control himself, the boy lunged forward, dropping to his knees. Iain sank his teeth into the animal, around its heart, where the richest blood had collected. The sound of gulping while he drained the carcass, drowned out the mournful spirits wailing nearby. When Iain stood up, his chin was a waterfall of blood and the previous vacant expression, was replaced by a lively grin. Vampires could survive indefinitely on animals, but their hunger returned after short spells; humans were the only satisfying meal, sustaining them for up to a month. During that period — ironically — vampires would feel closest to their old human selves. Tom would never supply Iain with anything other than wild animals.

Occasionally, they would walk to the Forbidden Forest, where Iain slept during the day in a disused silver mine. Otherwise — like tonight — Tom would leave him in the cabin; as Iain appeared to take comfort in the lamenting, tortured souls. Tom closed the door and hurried away: it would be light in under an hour. He tried to imagine what life was like for Iain, surrounded by darkness and solitude. As usual, he promised to exercise caution when dealing with dark magic and as usual, he forgot his promise the very next morning.


	13. XIII: Gretel & the End of the Beginning

**XIII - Rumour, Gretel and the End of the Beginning**

Betty imagined the last night of term would be a sombre affair. After her unexpected departure from Beauxbatons, followed by two terms at Hogwarts, she finally felt settled. Exams were no highlight and although questions from her father were unlikely, she expected his disappointed face to make an appearance. Most trunks had been arranged in vast pyramids and were now ready for transport to the station. Someone let slip to Vivian that a Hogwarts tradition was in store for them that night. It was also traditional — teachers said — not to mention what the tradition was. Fifth form girls in Ravenclaw; however, told them that it was actually traditional to know about the tradition, you weren't supposed to know about. So they told them.

A midnight feast for all students, was held on the last night of the year. Each dormitory would be assigned a lower sixth former, since upper sixth formers were mentally moving on at this late stage and each dormitory group was allotted a site, to avoid interference and squabbling among themselves. Someone travelling by broomstick high above Hogwarts, would see dozens of campfire beacons spread across the school grounds, winking like earthbound stars.

Not so much a feast, as an opportunity to cook simple food over a campfire. A hand-shovel was used to cover the fire with earth afterwards, which doubled as a skillet for roasting nuts on. You chatted, told stories and sang songs if the mood struck; it was the last night to connect with your friends, before the long summer break. Not everyone had lots of friends, but the tradition was to include everyone; especially those pupils often seen, but not heard. The emotional turmoil of exams and the sudden arrival of term end, needed a remedy. So sadness was kept at bay by a combination of food, friends and fire. It was a bonding experience and ended with most staring into the flames, reflecting on a year of life-affirming highs and inevitably, the odd low. Everyone sneaked around, whispered and kept to the shadows, since it was an important part of midnight-feast theatre. The sneaking was unnecessary, as all teaching staff were aware of the feasts and considered it an essential part of developing well-rounded witches and wizards.

Betty was sleeping lightly when Eudora shook her awake.

'We're getting ready to go.'

Betty quickly changed into the clothes she'd left out. Strictly speaking, she should have picnicked with her own dorm, but Eudora and Vivian insisted she join them. Vivian convinced the lower-sixth prefect that Betty was practically a sister to her and eventually the prefect caved.

Rebecca Dawnay was in charge of the Ravenclaw junior dorm; nicknamed _Mummy_ , she was a favourite of Headmaster Dippet and the Hogwarts' teaching staff. A brilliant pupil and stalwart of school societies, her smile was so permanently serene, it was almost unnerving. From Rebecca's arrival at the school gates six years earlier, she'd thrown herself into school life. Joining, helping, taking on the less appealing administrative chores, always arriving early and leaving late. Encouraging groups such as the Faerie Glade Preservation Society, which undertook marathon treks into the forests, to ensure faerie glades prospered. Choirs; school team supporters; litter picking; cleaning and repainting the school longship. Magical liaison: if a representative from the Ministry of Magic needed a tour of the school, Rebecca was on hand to show them round. The school and staff would certainly miss her enthusiasm when she moved on. Eudora was relieved to have Rebecca as their sixth former, but still thought that being out of bed would land them in trouble.

They weren't required to carry anything, since the school house-elves were tasked with transporting everything to the sites. The moon was halfway through its cycle, so once away from the castle lights, they wouldn't have to bump around in total darkness. Rebecca led their group downstairs to the Great Hall foyer and there beside the trunk pyramids — in a stage whisper — she recounted the midnight feast's history. There was in fact, no story to tell, but it was tradition to make one up and embellish it with gruesome details. Tales could be silly, frightening or both; the decision rested with the storyteller. Rebecca's story was a typically positive affair, maintaining Hogwarts' good name and ending on a happy note. Dippet would have swelled with pride.

Their designated site was across the covered footbridge, beside the Haunted Wood. This alarmed Eudora, until she heard that they would not be venturing beyond the tree line. With the wood behind, they sat on a grassy bank overlooking Rumsail Loch, admiring its pearly surface beneath the waxing moon. There were wooden crates with cushions and blankets to wrap around your shoulders: if it became chilly. In the centre were split logs and to one side a wicker hamper, plus an urn containing enough butterbeer for several mugs each. In the hamper were: sausages; Portobello mushrooms; cheddar cheese; corn kernels for popping; crisps; tomatoes and cucumbers, plus an assortment of bread rolls. Propped up nearby, was a 5lb hessian sack, containing groundnuts for roasting.

Rebecca led the way, with her wand illuminated and held above, like a tour guide. Mouthing the spell quietly — since first formers were not allowed to perform fire-invoking spells — a white fork exploded from the tip of her wand. The interlocking pile of logs erupted in flame and amber light flickered across their faces. The logs huffed and whistled, popping now and again, as the fire's invisible heat spread outwards. The house-elves had constructed the log pile with two flat surfaces: for resting the huge, iron frying pans on. Betty and Eudora struggled with one, before Rebecca took over and levitated it into position. Few first formers had a useful handle on magic yet, knowing only simple spells such as the _verdimillious charm_ (green sparks) and Rebecca was a reminder of how far they had to go in their studies. Plus, sixth form students had a knack for making spells look so easy.

Once the sausages and mushrooms were cooked, Rebecca, with help from Frances Leng — her protégé — dished them into rolls, then plated the salad and fresh crisps. Eudora, Betty and Vivian sat together with their backs to the wood, facing the silver loch. The food tasted so much better outside and also, Eudora thought, it felt like rule breaking without the risk. They scattered the groundnuts onto the hand shovel and took turns to flip them.

Rebecca announced that everyone had to tell a joke, or embarrassing story about themselves, while they tossed the nuts. Eudora's blood ran cold, since she was currently holding the shovel. Knowing she didn't have a funny bone in her body, this was a terrifying prospect. Usually when telling a joke, she messed up the punchline, or forgot a crucial element: stripping it of any humour.

Watching the nuts carefully — shovel in hand — Eudora told the story of a Saturday morning visit to the high street in Trim. After sleeping late her mother had called up, so Eudora dressed quickly and ran most of the way into town. Everyone was there for their weekly shop: family friends; magical folk; muggles; schoolmates; teachers and neighbours. She collected everything on the list, loading it into her wicker basket and stopping here and there to exchange pleasantries. Everyone seemed a little off that morning. Perhaps because she'd woken late, missed breakfast, or maybe it was just her imagination. Some were distant and few could make eye contact with her.

When Eudora got home, her mother took the basket from her. Turning, she said.

'Eudora, will you take a look at yourself in the mirror, now!'

There was a pause as Eudora stared into the campfire flames. Everyone leaned forward in expectation, before she continued.

There in the hall mirror, she was confronted by the bitter truth. Dressing in a hurry, the hem of her dress at the back had tucked into the top of her least-favourite pants. She'd been round the entire village several times, parading her underwear for all to see.

'I thought at one point, you know, _it is chilly today._ '

There was silence before Vivian snorted and quaked, trying to contain her laughter. The laughter was infectious, so everyone joined in, including Eudora. Others contributed an anecdote as the shovel was passed round, but Eudora's story remained a highlight. Vivian was resting an arm on her shoulder and Eudora felt a heartbreaking happiness, because tomorrow she would take an overnight train to Holyhead. Then an early ferry to Dublin and by late afternoon the following day, she'd be back in Trim. Missing these experiences and especially the company of her new friends.

After eating, they broke into smaller groups to chat; Vivian, Betty and Eudora were sitting in a horseshoe shape. Somehow the conversation turned to Eudora's hairstyle, which she'd kept since the Midsummer Supper. Self consciously Eudora touched her hair when Vivian mentioned it.

'Getting looks Dora, getting looks. I've seen Gary Box is keen. You might have yourself a new admirer there.'

'What?!' Eudora responded with more emotion than she intended. 'No, it's not like that. Gary's a friend.'

'WooOOOOoooo.' Vivian teased.

'He is. I like him, but I don't _like_ him.'

Vivian shrugged.

'All I'm saying is, liking somebody is a pretty good place to start.'

Eudora opened her lips to respond, but nothing came. She thought of the Mirror of Erised and promptly shut her mouth again. The day after tomorrow, she would be home and the mirror would be out of reach for two whole months. During her last visit to the Room of Requirement, she'd tried to memorise every detail, but Tom's face and her daughter's, were already beginning to fade.

Without warning, Betty spoke with her head lowered and eyes levelled at the flames.

'I'm going to miss you both, more than you can imagine. And Tom. I know he's just a friend, but our chats in muggle studies. I look forward to them so much and well… I just find him easy to talk to. Sometimes I wonder if he's thinking? _There's that girl again, trying to get my attention._ It's actually quite embarrassing.'

'You're not in love, are you?' Vivian asked.

Betty buried her face in her palms for a moment, before composing herself.

'No, it's just the way I am.' She smiled with a hint of sadness.

'Perhaps I didn't get enough attention when I was younger.'

Vivian put her arm around Betty and gave her a squeeze. 'If you're not sure how you feel, you're in good company. No one does.' Although she was smiling, Betty brushed away several discreet tears.

Lucky for Eudora it was dark, because her face was practically whimpering. _Betty even cries beautifully._ She'd not mentioned Tom for months and Eudora secretly hoped that Betty's interest had waned. Eudora had fooled herself, believing what she wanted to believe and now her Mirror of Erised dreams lay in tatters, because girls like Betty always won the prize. She was pretty, sophisticated and worst of all: _my best friend_. Eudora felt such a fraud. Sneaking around after dark, secretly fantasising about some childish daydream; pretending that in the real world, Tom would save himself until they got married. _Hah! As if that would ever happen?_ Words could not express how pathetic her behaviour sounded now.

Back in Trim, Eudora's previous life was simple. She went to school, ate her tea, read and went to bed. Now her emotions were supposed to navigate perilous, emotional waters: riddled with uncharted rocks and reefs. During a visit to the local bookshop in her village, she'd seen a romantic novel. Eudora casually picked it up and began flicking through the pages, before slamming it shut and leaving in a hurry. Her constant fear of being exposed! She understood now, what she feared then; that beneath her happy-go-lucky exterior, she was a romantic. Perhaps even a hopeless one. Who could never — not even for Betty — surrender her romantic hopes and dreams.

Every atom of her being wanted to commiserate and empathise with her friend. Surprising even herself — she couldn't do it — or didn't want to. Vivian stared at Eudora and flicked a nod towards Betty, so Eudora quickly joined them, resting a hand on Betty's other shoulder. Vivian was right. Everyone thought Betty was like Tom and didn't need support, but clearly she did. What sort of friend was Eudora being, if she wasn't there when Betty needed her most? How selfish had she become? Eudora forgot about Tom for the moment, but knew the long train ride and ferry crossing, would bring her gloomy mood back to roost.

It may have been _the condition of a realm at riot_ , but Eudora's mind let slip a secret and somehow it found its way to her lips. Perhaps she wanted to make Betty jealous? Eudora knew something about Tom, which Betty didn't.

'Tom is the true Lord Protector.' Eudora made it sound like she was commenting on the weather.

Vivian narrowed her eyes.

'You're gonna have to explain that Dora, 'cause I'm pretty sure we've no idea what you're talking about.'

Eudora recounted the heart containing the orb of anamnesis, the memory of the vampire attack, that Gary had been present, but unconscious and how Herbie was knocked out. Then Tom dispatched the vampire and here she paused, embroidering the truth. She failed to mention Sheldrick and the vampire's confinement in a metal box — which even now still shocked her. Eudora could see their stunned expressions and the unkindest corner of her mind, was relishing Betty's discomfort. Eudora continued: Tom replaced Herbie's memory with another — where Herbie had killed the vampire — then Tom left alone. Hiding everything he'd done and passing credit to the auror.

Vivian and Bettys' expressions were similar. Confused to the point of disbelief and aware that the version of events everyone knew to be true, was entirely false. Vivian condensed their thoughts into a single word.

'Why?'

Eudora, cornered and panicky, said the first thing that came to mind.

'I don't know.'

Which despite her expectations, seemed to satisfy them.

'We shouldn't tell. I mean… It's probably secret for a good reason.' Eudora's pleading acquired a note of desperation, now the cat was out of the bag.

'He's just being modest.' Vivian was thinking out loud and half-dismissing Eudora's pleas already.

'Please don't tell,' Eudora's whimpering face returned.

'I won't,' Vivian said, but there was something about her lack of conviction, which told Eudora it was already too late. Betty said nothing.

Rebecca Dawnay chose this moment to clap her hands softly together.

'Girls, can I have your attention? Gather up anything you've brought along. Leave everything else, the house-elves will collect it before daybreak. If you're interested, I'm presenting them with a signed portrait of staff tomorrow morning. To thank them for their contribution over the past year: meet at 6.45am, on the stage in the Great Hall.'

No one responded, since they all planned to be fast asleep at that time, but Eudora knew sleep was beyond her now. An hour ago, she was sure she didn't want to go home; however, at this moment and given the chance, she would happily run to the station. Keeping the secret about Tom had been a firm promise and now the whole school would know. When Gary found out, he would hate her! He'd tell everyone — including Tom — that silly-little Eudora was behind it all. Her stomach turned upside down with worry, during their climb back up to the castle. Life could change course with no warning and she always felt so ill-equipped to deal with it.

Eudora lay awake for many hours — fretting — then attended the house-elf presentation early next morning, along with Frances Leng. Rebecca's transports of delight at greeting not one junior pupil, but two, was touching. Frances smiled in a shy way, but Eudora just felt sick, especially in her heart. She planned to stay out of harm's way and keep the lowest profile possible when walking to the station. Sometimes in winter, or after dark, there were carriages to Hogsmeade, but in fine weather they always walked. She would make a hole and live in it for the entire journey, waiting patiently for their arrival at King's Cross. Then, after taking a taxi to Euston, she planned to sleep on the train and board her ferry the next morning. Eudora's mother was meeting her at the station in Trim, later that day; then, finally, she would be hundreds of miles from any difficult questions. For two whole months.

William Howard was also up early on leaving day. The seed of his idea at the Midsummer Supper, germinated over the days that followed. It would be fair to say, the whole business was taking an unhealthy grip on his state of mind and he was frequently seen talking and protesting with himself. His side of the story seemed important, but in truth he was simply wrestling with his conscience. Bill knew that what he was planning, was fundamentally wrong; the simple litmus test was: _would you like it if someone did this to you? No, obviously I wouldn't_ and that should have been the end of it. As far as power, authority and respect were concerned, justifying your actions only mattered at the beginning. Later on, conscience barely got a look in.

Bill had been muttering to himself during Sunday lunch, when he was interrupted by a classmate, asking who he was talking to. Bill realised that his obsession was now visible to the wider school population. _So what?_ _Who cares_? He didn't any more. Riddle needed taking down; this was war and Tom — poor little innocent Tom — had fired the first shot.

Bill assembled a clique around him: his war cabinet. They wouldn't dream of questioning his motives, mostly due to Bill's size and influence. If Bill were an ape, his followers would be surrounding him, removing parasites and stroking his fur back into place. In the absence of parasites, they showered his lack of self-esteem with compliments and approval. The group numbered around ten and were keen to make an early impression on the world. In several years the boys' hormones would take a back seat, but for now, pack hunting and picking on the weak, was a legitimate form of entertainment. Identifying a target for his clique, especially one who offered so little resistance, was too enticing for Bill to pass up.

Frank Merryweather contacted his father to enquire about Riddle, mumbling something about provenance and background. Apparently Tom was being considered for a special award and there might be something iffy in his family tree. This was a valid reason as far as his father was concerned, so Frank was given full permission to use The Daily Prophet; in whichever manner he saw fit.

When the owl came through with a summary from the Prophet, Frank handed it straight to Bill, whose eyes glinted. He scanned the parchment, picking up nuggets of gold along the way. Tom was an orphan, magical mother... _Well, forget that detail._ Muggle father, muggle upbringing, rumours of underage magical use, but nothing concrete so far and a suspected interest in the dark arts. A history of lax supervision, flexible morals and so on. Bill was beside himself and so were his minions. This was more than enough to drag Tom's name through the mud.

Those walking to the station set off at 8.30am; students' trunks had been sent earlier and were currently being loaded while the locomotive built up steam. The sun was already far above the treetops, promising cloudless skies and baking heat during their journey. Bill's troop made sure they left at the front of the line, where they could successfully plant their rumour.

 _Tom was a cheat, a filthy mudblood cheat. A dark-arts fanatic, who slithered from pillar to post, attempting to conceal his vile, orphanage upbringing. He killed animals with no hint of remorse, stole, lied, had no pedigree and really shouldn't be attending a school of Hogwarts' calibre. He was sullying their noble reputation. Yes, he'd done well in his exams, but then cheats always did well in exams, didn't they? That was sort of the point. The unapologetic swindler had apparently taken a shortcut in the Hogwarts 800 and used dark magic to conceal his actions! There were reliable witnesses to his shocking behaviour, among them The Daily Prophet._

The rumour would then travel back through the file of students, stretching along the cart track. That was the plan Bill had briefed them on.

Eudora was right the previous evening to suspect Vivian's integrity. She went straight back to their dorm and fell asleep in minutes; however, when Vivian awoke the next morning, a raging fire burned inside her. She had to spill the beans and held on only as far as breakfast. Phyllis Evans from Newport, a pleasant girl but fond of tittle-tattle, was her target. Phyllis was planning a career in the Ministry of Magic and some insignificant muggle outpost, thirty storeys below ground was not for her. She was after top-tier assignments and believed all information was automatically in the public domain: whatever the fallout. Telling Phyllis, was no different to telling the whole school.

Within minutes, the news reached the next table and students looked over at Vivian: the source of the story. Not known for gossip, or attention-seeking rumour, her stubborn face spoke volumes. _Tom Riddle is the true Lord Protector._ He fought the vampire using advanced magic and absolute fearlessness. What inspired the students most, was his decision to hide the fact. He had no interest in impressing anyone and allowed Herbie Peniakoff to take the credit. _Who did that? Someone impressive, that's who!_ By the end of breakfast, everyone in the Great Hall knew; within an hour, almost the entire school had been informed. The entire school except staff, Tom and Gary; plus Bill's posse, whose attention was focussed elsewhere. As Tom and Gary were directly named in the rumour, perhaps it was a bit early to sidle up and start questioning them, just yet.

Halfway along the crocodile of pupils heading to the station, the two contradictory reports met and a battle for supremacy began. Bill and his cohorts had reached the station and were preparing to confront Tom, perhaps push him around a little to spice things up. Hogwarts didn't need celebrity figures, especially in the first form. The idea of pushing Tom around, seeing him get up from the floor — apologising — appealed to Bill more than he expected. He would finally impress on the crowd, who the real winner of the Hogwarts 800 was. The honourable William Howard Esq: heir to the noble house of Howard. Not this orphaned, mudblood vermin!

Things were not going to plan. The rumour travelling backwards was unappetising and spiteful; although it may have impressed some, they were probably the most feeble-minded characters at Hogwarts. The news from the back was far more appealing: a pupil had saved the school from a vampire's curse. That pupil had also let someone else take the credit for it. This was the same person who stopped during the Hogwarts 800, to help another student and chose not to mention that either. He was one of the most promising students Hogwarts had ever seen; a fact underlined by his award at the Midsummer Supper. Could he defeat a vampire? That was more than possible. Could he keep it quiet? Well, he'd already done that before and the whole school knew it. The crowd — while appearing fickle on the surface — is always composed of thinking individuals and as is usually the case, the majority remain silent until the performance begins. The rumour of Tom's bravery and selfless behaviour, triumphed over the cruel lies travelling back to meet it.

Tom walked up the platform with Gary; Betty, Eudora and Vivian were several groups further back. Many were gossiping among themselves — not whether Tom was a thief, a muggle lover, or someone with no family — but who was behind the vicious rumour?

That question was answered almost immediately. As Tom passed by, Bill dropped his shoulder, sending him sideways into the platform wall.

'Mind yourself, Riddle. We're not all celebrity fans round here.' His gang, with hands in their pockets, smirked, ready to step in now that Tom was outnumbered.

'Watch it Bill, he might cover you in red sparks.' One of them warned.

'Or green! I've heard those green ones are lethal.' Bill's gang laughed and surrounded Tom.

'Oh, give it a rest Howard, why don't you?' Gary stood in front of Tom, but he was swatted away by the older boys.

Vivian pushed her way to the front and stood directly in front of Bill; only shoulder height to the bully, but not intimidated by his size.

'Now we know who's behind the lies. Look at you. Ten boys picking on someone younger, because he's made something of himself. If you're all such a bunch of tough guys, fight me.'

She stepped up to Bill with such conviction, he was forced to take a step back.

Bill's gang had no experience of confrontation with a girl. You couldn't push her around — that was unthinkable — even to them. You couldn't argue with her, she was already two steps ahead; it was hard to know what to do. They had nothing in the arsenal to fall back on.

Then a ripple turned to a tide in the crowd. Students shouted out.

'Leave him alone Howard!'

'Pick on someone your own size!'

'Are you fighting girls now?'

'Why do you need ten to take on one first former?'

These were good questions and none of them had the answers. Bill's gang bunched together.

Then someone shouted: 'Tom Riddle is the true Lord Protector!'

The crowd latched onto the phrase and chanted it as they swelled around the gang of bullies. Bill stepped aside to let Tom, Gary and Vivian pass, defeated by the silent majority, who always when you least expected it, found their voice.

Tom and Gary took one of the compartments near the front and found themselves joined by pupils they didn't know. Older, more influential students, who wouldn't allow Bill or his deputies near Tom. In the school pecking order, Bill might be respected, but he was still a long way from the top. A whistle shrieked and the Hogwarts Express pushed through drifting curtains of steam.

After an uneventful journey of watching scenery, mingled with broken sleep, the train drew into King's Cross. Hogwarts students dissolved into the early-evening crowd; a river of briefcases and bowler hats, meandering onto identical, suburban trains. Eudora slipped into a taxi after a brief goodbye, but needn't have worried. No one was interested in the source of Tom's story now, only his selfless behaviour. The right action had been taken and Vivian had earned the crowd's respect too.

As usual, Gary slapped Tom on the back when they parted company at the Tube entrance; Tom needed to catch his tram and Gary was bound for west London on the District Line. Tom had wondered during the journey, whether Gary was the story's source. How could Gary know about Herbie's false memory and the other details he'd heard repeated? Then Tom stopped worrying — it didn't matter any more — everyone seemed to approve, so what was the problem?

As Tom prepared to cross the Euston Road, he turned to Gary who was still watching him.

'Thanks for today.'

Gary picked up his bag, began walking backwards and shouted.

'No, Tom. You're the one that everyone wants to thank.'

* * *

The cobbled street led from Greenwich High Road down to Deptford Creek, less than a mile from Wool's. Three men — two in flat caps and one shirtless in a white vest — walked down the slope to the water. All three had a cigarette pinched in the corner of their mouths. As they disappeared from view, Tom emerged from an alley at the other end of the street. It was mid-August and war in Europe was imminent: talk was of when, _not if_. Veterans of the last war, shook their heads when asked about the likelihood of an eleventh-hour peace treaty.

'You mark my words, sure as eggs is eggs. War by Christmas.' Algie Kempster predicted: the night watchman at Deptford's cattle market and a veteran of Flanders.

The odd, hopeless dreamer still imagined it might be called off at the last minute, but they were ignored now.

Initially, Tom had been above all the guessing and speculation. How could this war affect him, when most of his next six years would be spent in the Scottish Highlands? Then, as he considered the situation more carefully, red flags were raised; especially concerning Kit. He was prevented from signing up due to his age, but the British Expeditionary Force was currently being mobilised. They were less choosy now and if a word was put in with the recruiting sergeant, he could be fighting within a month. Kit — for most of Tom's life — was the only family he'd known.

Also, as Algie Kempster had taken great pains to point out, London's docklands would be a prime objective of Germany's. They were all wandering about with an enormous target on their backs. Algie explained that the docks were currently out of range, but European territory was being eaten up; how long before they found themselves within the bombsights of the Luftwaffe? Everyone living nearby was aware of the fact, but avoided bringing it up in conversation. Wool's boys should be evacuated with other orphans, to less vulnerable towns and cities, but they were useful dockside hands. Being overlooked — especially on Parnaby's say-so — was a distinct possibility.

His final concern related to an overheard conversation between two women in Kirkbride's Hardware, on Deptford High Street; one of whom, had a husband working at the Ministry of Food. She glanced around, checking there were no Nazi bystanders in the vicinity; then seeing only Tom, she whispered to her friend.

'Mick says they're bringing rationing in, _soon as_.' She peeped guiltily over her shoulder again, before adding.

'U-boat build up in the Atlantic. So I'm getting two of everything. Putting it by, 'cause there's tough times ahead, I shouldn't wonder.'

Tom acted immediately.

He was a hoarder and always had been; understandable in an environment where going without, was an everyday occurrence. Tom now had the means to acquire goods, whether he was acting ethically or not. The plan was to step up his actions and stockpile money, tinned foods, luxury goods, non-perishable items and similar. He visited the West End that afternoon, but pickings were slim; news travelled fast, especially among the wealthy, so luxury goods were nowhere to be found. The next course of action was to accumulate money and his preferred target was Jack Yardley and the Cubitt Town Boys. They were skimming most dockland operations and payments were probably heading up the pyramid to local government, so Tom would take their money with a clear conscience. As far as he understood it, the money was never theirs to begin with.

His plan would rattle the cage of a dangerous beast, so caution should come before greed. He followed Jack's gang at night — covertly — using the _stunning spell_ or _confundus_ _charm_. It was also essential now, to divert the trace onto Vernon Worsley during the holidays and to make use of his Babylonian dark cloaks where possible. Vernon was a friendly, well-meaning lad, who liked nothing better than to sit inside and endlessly wonder about things.

He was using the _confundus charm_ less often these days. Jack Yardley may have little in the way of book learning, but he was a difficult man to fool. When several of his boys apparently forgot where they'd placed one of the money satchels, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. Tom frequently used the _disillusionment charm_ to monitor the impact of his activities; circling his wand around himself and blending into the background. Usually in The Gun: Jack's local pub. Or his front for operations — Crown Timber in Rotherhithe — beside the Surrey Commercial Docks. Yardley owned several timber ponds, which stored immense tree trunks in loose rafts. Under which — it was said — his enemies were lashed until waterlogged. Then several days later they were floated out on the receding tide, washing ashore in Kent or Essex.

So Tom switched to stunning the Cubitt Town Boys, since it appeared more credible. They came round dazed, assuming a rival gang had coshed them, or that they'd been jumped by some lone-wolf hustler.

Tom edged along the wooden wharf, just above the three men. The tide was out and they stood on the muddy shoreline below, visible through gaps in the planking. Smears of smoke rose vertically from industrial stacks, into a cloudless sky. A bolt from Tom's wand and the gangsters stiffened, rocked gently, then hit the mud with an undignified slap. Tom no longer needed to enunciate his spells, repeating the words in a half-whisper was sufficient. He paused a moment, then carefully picked his way down the slippery cobbles. When Tom approached the three bodies, he was careful not to cross their field of vision; the men just stared up at the circling insects and listened to the wavelets lapping nearby. Crouching, he opened the satchel and hesitated: there were three bundles of notes, in five pound denominations. Foolishly Tom counted them out in the open, thumbing the thick wads. There was over £1500 in the satchel. This was no collection, but a shipment of money from one stronghold to another; representing many business deals, or bribes by another name. The repercussions of taking such a huge sum, would be swift and severe.

Tom decided to take it, filling his pockets and stuffing his shirt. Then a shout came from further up the street, so he swirled his wand and melted into the background. Two men pounded down the slope and found their colleagues out cold, or not quite. Their eyes were still open: staring blankly at the sky, as dead men do. One of the gang checked for a heartbeat and discovered they were still alive; perhaps they'd been drugged? The other man, wearing a torn shirt and the dirtiest trousers Tom had ever seen, shook the satchel. Tom backed under the wharf as they circled for clues; then he reached the timber reinforcements, sunk into the river bank and could go no further. He realised his mistake too late. One of the men noticed Tom's footprints in the mud. Footprints which led directly to him.

Apparating was too difficult to conceal from the ministry — trace or no trace — so Tom was in a tight corner. The gangster following the footprints, paused and took a leather cosh from his pocket, then continued advancing towards Tom. He could stun them if they got too close, but suspicion had already been aroused. Or he could erase their memories from the last week, just to be sure? What about other thugs nearby? Leaving a dozen bodies lying below the wharf, would look like gang warfare, not robbery.

The man — Gerry Wallis — was just a few feet away. Heavily built, a foundry employee and practised in the art of coshing; Tom was paralysed by indecision. Gerry halted, unable to process what he was looking at: the footsteps seemed to originate from a solid wall of timber? No one was nearby and nobody had left the scene. Somehow a person had appeared — as if by magic — then taken the money and vanished into thin air. Gerry looked above him, but the wharf couldn't be accessed from the shore — it made no sense — so he wouldn't mention it to Jack when explanations were called for. Gerry returned to the bodies lying in the mud. By backing away, with his footprints facing forward, Tom had probably saved his life.

The two men carried the bodies one by one up the street and propped them against a wall topped with broken glass. The stupefied bodies stood rigidly when tipped backwards, like stacked, scaffolding planks. The tide was coming in, which brought Gerry some welcome relief; it would wash away any evidence of his ghostly thief. Francis Rietti — the other gang member — was far too simple to notice forensic clues, so Gerry would cook up the story himself. _Several thugs unknown, jumped our Cubitt Town Boys, snatched the money and made off sharpish towards the high road_.

Tom slipped past the men using the _disillusionment charm_ and despite the temptation to run, kept a steady pace along the next street. He melted back into focus beside a sagging wall on Tarves Way, then took the shortest route to Croom's Hill. The bundles bulged beneath his jacket, but who would think a schoolboy had wads of stolen money on him? No one. When he reached his house and closed the door, a paralysing wave of relief swept through him. These were not teenage bullies; they were hardened criminals who you never saw coming, until it was too late. There was no magic capable of protecting someone, if they were unconscious or dead. He was safe tonight, but repercussions from this theft would be felt across the four corners of London's docklands. No one would be above suspicion and future dealings with Jack Yardley should be conducted with a good deal more stealth.

On Sunday morning during breakfast, Parnaby stood at the front of the mess hall with his daughter. Kit meanwhile, was visiting the anti-aircraft battery in Greenwich; a rumour had circulated, that his application would be rubber stamped in the next few days. Tom, like many, knew that manning an AA battery in a London park, was no preparation for combat. He would have to accept that Kit intended to fight, despite what he, or anyone else said to discourage him. As a result, Tom spent more time on his own at Wool's. It wasn't that he didn't get on with the other boys, it was just that it suited him to maintain some distance. His future now lay elsewhere and the plans that would get him there, shouldn't concern others.

Parnaby cleared his throat.

'Good morning boys.' He waited for the appropriate, polite response before continuing. 'A notable day for us all at Wool's. War is coming! Thanks to our privileged relationship with the district council, we have been selected to help our friends from across the European continent.' Parnaby pretended to check some prompt cards, as he'd seen councillors do during speeches. Everyone knew he was only offering to help, for a favour in return.

'Refugees will begin arriving this evening, aboard the _Kindertransport_ , which is due to terminate at Liverpool Street Station. We have agreed to take eleven girls.' This bullet point was accompanied by an intake of breath; Wool's was for boys. Girls were an exotic and unknown quantity.

'Settle down! I've designated a block of rooms to serve as the girls' quarters, so some of you will be moved later this morning. The tool shed will be repurposed in the short term for any overspill, until such time that the weather turns cooler and a more permanent solution is required. We shall all extend our warmest, Wool's welcome to the girls and you will — of course — give me no cause to regret your conduct throughout their stay. There we have it.'

Parnaby left, closely followed by Judith, who looked especially miserable. Wool's had been her exclusive domain since birth; all the boys loved her without question and now she would be just one of a dozen girls. When Parnaby had finally disappeared down the stairs, conversation erupted across the room. _Girls! In the orphanage._

Even those boys moving to the tool shed, didn't mind. War was months, or perhaps weeks away and even if the adults were sulking and withdrawn, the Nation's children were desperate to get stuck in.

That evening, the boys stood on either side of the path leading to Wool's front entrance. An honour guard, which felt appropriate until the girls were led up the street. Cook had been sent across town to escort them back on the tram. The girls came from Vienna in Austria and were all Jewish; none of which meant a great deal to the boys at first. The timid group surrounded Cook, reluctant to leave her side as they approached the orphanage. Cook counted them a final time before they faced their welcoming committee; then awkwardness spread through both groups as no one uttered a word. Four of the eleven spoke good English and relayed Cook's instructions to the others in German. They were quiet, well mannered and despite their brave front, had developed a routine fear of the unknown. Several attempted a smile, as they made their way towards the open front door; where Parnaby was waiting with his daughter.

They brought with them an invisible, but unmistakable aura of sadness. Except for sharing a country with one another, they were all strangers in a foreign land. Their parents were in grave danger, but had still insisted they leave without them. The eldest may have understood why, but the youngest were confused and buried themselves deeply in their thoughts.

Tom and the other boys repeated _welcome_ as the girls passed by. A few were able to manage a smile, but most looked ready to cry: not from sadness, but from inner turmoil. Having built up a resistance to cruelty, they were afraid to let go and trust others again. Especially when being offered the hand of friendship.

At the back was a girl of six or seven, whose name was printed on a piece of card and hung around her neck. It said: _Gretel Birnholz_. As they filed into the orphanage, one of the older girls took her hand. Passing by, Gretel turned her head to look at Tom; several moments later, she looked again, surprising the older girl.

Parnaby asked Tom to escort the girls to the mess hall, for a late supper; where they ate in silence, accompanied only by cutlery scraping plates. Gretel looked at Tom again; perhaps she wanted to tell him something? The older girl sitting to her right turned to Tom and said.

'My name is Hildegard — Hildy — and this is Gretel. She _does not speak_ since her parents _were moving_ to Germany. She is staying with an aunt who put her on the train. I think she wants to be your friend?' Hildy smiled properly, perhaps for the first time in months.

Tom knew differently: Gretel was a witch. Perhaps not a skilled practitioner, more like himself at that age, but showing promise. She was able to identify Tom instantly and a bond of trust had formed.

As she ate her meal, Gretel turned to look at Tom. Her face was expressionless and she said nothing, but Hildy was marvelling.

'This is the first time _I saw_ her notice anything. What is your name please?'

'Tom.'

Hildy turned to Gretel.

'This is Tom, Gretel. He is your new friend.' Gretel's face said nothing, but every so often she turned to check he was still there.

* * *

With only a week till his return to Hogwarts, Tom was freewheeling. His plan to store as much as possible for rationing ahead, had been executed with a degree of success. The basement in his house was cleared and swept; food, clothing, fuel and any luxury he could track down, had been collected and stored. Signing on behalf of _his father_ posed no problem and the deliveries interested none of his neighbours. After a job well done, he allowed himself the last week of summer off, before his return to Hogwarts.

Kit — out of breath — burst through Tom's door.

'They've only gone and done it, 'aven't they?'

Tom was none the wiser.

'Germany Tom! They've invaded Poland. That's it now. That's war thank you very much. Finally!'

He let out a whoop and ran up the corridor.

Kit's reaction was not typical, or if the sentiment was shared, it was kept under wraps in mixed company.

The rest of Friday continued as normal, as did Saturday, then they awoke to a perfect Sunday: the last hurrah before autumn. Blue skies, distant, motionless cloudlets and a contented stillness hung over the city. The boys were breaking down the mess hall after breakfast and stacking tables against the far wall, since it served as their workshop during daylight hours. The hall was white and battleship grey; patches of missing plaster were painted over rather than repaired and it always smelled of stale grease and disinfectant. Tom was part of the detail washing plates, cups and cutlery. Bruce Codner — one of the older boys planning to join up — stood in the doorway eating an apple; he was leaning on one elbow, with a hand pushing up the door frame. After swallowing a mouthful of apple, he shouted.

'Right, you 'orrible lot. Parnaby's study, double-time. Move it, move it, move it!'

There were two dozen boys already there when Tom arrived, but the numbers continued to grow, with boys in the corridor straining to hear Parnaby's voice.

'The Prime Minister will be addressing the Empire,' was all he said. Ordinarily, this would be accompanied by a note of triumph, but not today. Parnaby just looked tired.

He turned on the wireless: a veneered cabinet facing the room, which sat with pride of place on a table behind him. The valves warmed and a soft glow lit the lower section of the station dial. Despite the exotic markings, including Rome and Copenhagen, Parnaby only listened to two stations: both broadcast by the BBC. The Home Service and when he was feeling more frivolous: The Light Programme — though this was rare. He preferred to adopt a studious frown and violently disagree with every view expressed by the BBC; especially when it related to dispatches about the coming war.

He fine-tuned the dial, which whistled and squawked before settling on the voice of Alvar Lidell. Then his tone deepened, as the valves approached their operating temperature.

' _At 11.15, that is in about two minutes, the Prime Minister will broadcast to the nation. Please stand by._ '

No one would forget the minutes that followed. Tom looked out of Parnaby's bay window, towards the ranks of wobbling barrage balloons, protecting the coastal approaches. For an optimistic moment, he imagined nothing could ever change this view.

There was murmuring and twitching in the room, as each boy held onto the box containing his gas mask. Twiddling the string between their fingers, or spinning it in one direction, then the other. Each imagined that they were supposed to feel something, but there was no experience to draw upon. In contrast to Parnaby, who spent those minutes remembering his mess unit in Belgium; the place where he'd gained his catering skills and the reason why he'd ended up at Wool's. His unit was beyond the line of fire back then, but it paid to expect the unexpected. A push to form a salient — or finger — into the enemy lines, led to retaliation from a German Howitzer battery; which claimed more than twenty of his company in a single strike. Parnaby swallowed as he recalled them joking and laughing; he always remembered them joking and laughing, even now. Cheerfully ignorant of their appointment with fate, as it galloped forward to meet them. The silence and radio static was interrupted by Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain. It was Sunday morning, September 3rd, 1939. Chamberlain was tired, but resolute and his words hung in the air, before sinking under the gravity of their content.

 _'This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final Note stating that, unless we heard from them by 11 o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us._

 _I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.'_

Tom searched the faces in the room for Kit. He was in the far corner by the bookcases, eyes closed in relief. Kit had dreamed about this moment and now Tom felt vulnerable; all this could change permanently if Kit left to fight in France. He would then be directly in harm's way. Tom corrected himself. It was going to happen, there were noifs and buts now. Tom's gaze drifted over the heads of the other boys; around ten of them were close to signing up and how many would remain in France forever? Hogwarts seemed so remote in his current frame of mind, but he was grateful for that. Tom's attention returned to the wireless again.

 _'The Government have made plans under which it will be possible to carry on the work of the nation in the days of stress and strain that may be ahead. But these plans need your help. You may be taking your part in the fighting services or as a volunteer in one of the branches of Civil Defence. If so you will report for duty in accordance with the instructions you have received. You may be engaged in work essential to the prosecution of war for the maintenance of the life of the people — in factories, in transport, in public utility concerns, or in the supply of other necessaries of life. If so, it is of vital importance that you should carry on with your jobs…'_

Tom saw Kit smiling at Dudley Hewer; both similar in age, they obviously had similar plans and Tom felt left out. Kit and Dudley stood to attention, as if the Prime Minister were talking directly to them. He was asking and willingly, they would answer his call. The speech came to a close.

 _'It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against — brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution — and against them I am certain that the right will prevail."_

There was silence and Parnaby turned the radio off. Light from the valves, slowly died.

'You may go,' he said without emotion.

There was no talking as the boys returned to their duties, aware that everything would change now. Ignorant of the finer detail perhaps, but aware.

Fifteen minutes later an industrial whine — slowly rising and falling — echoed across the city and sent all the boys running into the street. The air-raid siren was a terrifying reminder that London was now in harm's way. It continued wailing mournfully and most of the boys expected to see bombers raining fire from above; a few had put their gas masks on, but none of them took shelter. A pregnant woman ran past, missing a shoe. Terrified, she screamed at them.

'Take cover!'

They ignored her and stayed put. It turned out to be a false alarm: friendlies spotted over the English Channel, so the boys remained where they were. Enjoying the sunshine and exhilarated by their first brush with danger.

Tom was examining a notch in his door frame before lights out; when he left for Hogwarts the previous year, he'd decided to record his height. Tom made another notch as fairly as he could and fought the temptation to stretch upwards. He was two inches taller. Sometime during last year's events and experiences, he'd grown without noticing.

Tom lay on his bed and scanned through Betty's letter again. He was drawn to the address on the front: W _ool's House, Wharf Street, Deptford London SE8_. Tom had deliberately left the word _orphanage_ off his address and she'd chosen to go along with it; he was sure she knew, but then everyone knew more about him than he'd previously thought. It sounded such a grand residence and hardly matched his cramped room, reeking of chemicals. Betty would never see this place of course, even if the unlikely opportunity ever came up. No one would. Wool's didn't bother him; it was all he'd ever known until last year. Other people — including those at Hogwarts — probably would be bothered. They might feel sympathy _,_ which as far as he was concerned, was worse than looking down on him. Normal life for most was a comfortable room and bed, regular hot meals, pleasant surroundings and generous support from a close family.

Tom read the letter again, which had come by owl the previous morning. It was about the declaration of war and perhaps Betty felt it more keenly than most; he couldn't tell. She was good at hiding her personal feelings, behind general concerns. Betty's last paragraph changed tack.

' _...my father said we left France at the right time and the English Channel is a convenient obstacle between us and the rest of Europe. Mother says there's much discussion about which course of action the Ministry of Magic should take. Whether it's better to keep a low profile during times of heightened muggle sensitivity_ — this sounded like a direct quote from Betty's mother — _or to help in some way. So far no one can agree and meetings on the subject have become emotional and extremely long! Sorry for going on, but it's all I've heard at home for the past few weeks!_

 _There was something else I wanted to say_ _—_ _the reason I'm writing_ _—_ _I expect I've just been putting it off. I heard, like most people, that you were involved in trying to defend us after Iain Calder's death and that everyone took to calling you the True Lord Protector. I don't know you well enough, I'm sure_ — There was something about this sentence, which refused to sit comfortably with Tom — _but I expect you think it's a silly title. Not telling anyone about being involved and letting Herbie Peniakoff take the credit, says a lot more than you know. I told my younger sister about you, I hope you don't mind and she says you sound dreamy! Ha ha. I know you will squirm at that, but honestly, I can't imagine anyone else behaving like you did and I'm glad to know you. There, I've said it and will leave you in peace. Looking forward to returning to Hogwarts and expect I'll see you there!_

 _Best wishes Betty._ (The full stop looked like the beginnings of an 'x', but she must have changed her mind.)

 _P.S. You have to come back, as I need help with my potions. Ha!_

The letter was confusing and despite reading it four or five times, Tom still wasn't sure why she'd written it now; when only a few days remained before their second year. Tom's instinct told him it was a letter sent to an ordinary friend: rinsed of attachment or emotion. Then he reread it, letting his guard drop. Perhaps it was intimacy disguised as friendliness? Was Betty frustrated she couldn't say what she thought, or was he just being arrogant? True Lord Protector was a ridiculous name. She may have left the word orphanage off the address, but it was undoubtedly where he came from. Tom Riddle, Lord of Wool's orphanage. What a joke.

* * *

It was a Sunday morning and the next day Tom would leave London for Hogwarts. The weather had turned, streets were empty and threatening clouds from the north crawled overhead. Chillier than the previous week, Tom wrapped Gretel in a scarf before they set off for Greenwich Park; then he held her hand as they walked up Greenwich High Road, towards the boating lake. Ladies they passed had one hand clamped to their hats, frowning at the stiff breeze. After the initial shock of declaring war, reality was biting. Petrol was instantly rationed and most cars were put in storage; meaning traffic thinned on the roads, leaving only buses, cycles and the odd lorry making deliveries. Every so often they passed a pedestrian staring at the sky. Not that unusual among the British, who always liked to keep an eye on the weather, but now there was a more sinister motive. The papers were full of terrifying warnings about gas and bombs, raining down from above. Poland was overrun and everyone believed that Britain's turn would come soon enough.

Gretel and Tom talked, but not in a way that they could be heard. She spoke good English, but chose to remain silent around people for the time being. Her mother was from London and her chemist father was Austrian, originally working for IG Farben in Vienna.

 _Six weeks earlier, they were woken by harsh thumping on the front door. Two identical soldiers and an immaculate officer with a silver aiguillette over his right shoulder, barged in. The officer then instructed her father to get dressed and pack a suitcase; they would be leaving in ten minutes: half-dressed if necessary. Her parents were shown the door five minutes later, unprepared, then forced through it. Gretel's mother wept, pleading with the officer to take Gretel with them. He gave the child a cursory glance, then refused. The documentation was perfectly clear: passage for two. Gretel followed them outside, where her parents were pushed aboard a high-sided truck. Her mother and fathers' faces were pale and shocked, as they struggled to accept what was happening to them. The truck departed and her mother shouted up the street; Gretel should immediately travel to her aunt's on the outskirts of Vienna. 'Go now! Go!' Her parents' drained faces disappeared from view._

 _Gretel found her aunt's house with help, but after four weeks there, Aunt Magdalena returned from the shops on a Wednesday afternoon. She drew all the curtains, despite it still being light. Gretel was to go on a journey and no, her aunt would not be coming; she would travel to London that evening and what an adventure it would be! Her aunt wept discreetly at the station, when a group of grim-faced strangers led Gretel onto the train. Without a backward glance, it carried her into Germany for their connection at Nuremberg. From there the train travelled to the Hook of Holland, where she boarded a merchant vessel for Harwich._

Tom was thinking about Kit when they arrived at the boating lake. Kit was twelve when he first took a central role in Tom's life and now he'd joined the army and was moving on. So Tom would follow Kit's earlier example and become part of Gretel's family. A year ago Tom was out on a limb: unconnected to the world; someone with no family and no future. Now he knew fragments of his past, was receiving an education, had plans of substance and good friends too. Gretel gave him some previously-missing responsibility and looking after her was a way of repaying the kindness shown to him. Tom was staring into the distance, when he was interrupted by Gretel pulling at his sleeve.

They circled the lake perimeter to the wooden hut, where moored boats gently bumped into one another. Gretel squeezed his hand. She wanted to ride in a kayak; more difficult to manoeuvre, but you could sit up front. Then it was easy to pretend that they were exploring the Nile, or the Amazon. Gretel knew Tom was due to leave the next morning, but was putting on a brave face; used to disappointment, she accepted the fact without fuss. Yesterday morning Tom told her about Hogwarts and the friends he'd made there. He promised to help her enrol when she was eleven and now there was something exciting to look forward to. After the war he'd find her parents and they could all live nearby; her family and Tom would be neighbours.

Gretel looked down, then back at Tom when he'd finished; she said nothing, but he knew what the look meant. Her parents were already dead and she was alone now. It was kind of Tom to protect her from the truth, but not necessary. They could speak to one another because of Gretel's magical abilities, not Tom's. She knew who you could talk to, wherever they were. Her parents were gone, as was her aunt; it had already happened and no amount of hoping could bring them back.

Tom dipped his paddle into the water to steer away from the bank and saw a smile threatening to spread across Gretel's face. He brought her here because during these brief moments, she could forget herself. The simple pleasure of pretending to be an explorer, released her and nothing else could do that yet. They would have an ice cream, despite it being cold, then walk back to Wool's. He was able to bring her moments of happiness and from his own experience, that would be enough to survive on.

They bought ices from a man on a three-wheeled bicycle, then ate them beside The Avenue. Gretel finished hers quickly and ran among the rose bushes; where she discovered a horse chestnut leaf and brought it back to show Tom. He would help her press it between sheets of newspaper, when they got back. Then it would remind Gretel of their trips to the park, until the Christmas holidays. He promised to send her an owl weekly, full of news and Tom assured her that it would have no trouble finding Wool's.

When the refugees from Austria arrived, each girl was registered and issued with an identity card. The photos were taken one morning in the mess hall and Tom was nearby, encouraging Gretel off camera. Even though her head faced forwards in the photo, her eyes were looking sideways at him. The photographer — Billy Webb — took a snap of them staring out of the window afterwards. Returning several days later, he handed the developed photo to Tom, but refused to take any payment. The photograph showed them standing in front of the mess hall's, east-facing windows; Gretel was holding onto the sill with both hands — a look of wonder on her face — while Tom was above, pointing. They were watching the barrage balloons swaying above the factories in Greenwich Reach, though it was impossible to know that, since the photo was taken side on. To an outside observer, Tom might have been pointing towards their future.

He had the photograph framed and was planning to give it to Gretel just before he left, along with a parcel of food. He took her hand and they turned onto the High Street, heading back to Wool's; while the darkening rain clouds above, drained the scene of any colour.

Tom woke at 4.15am, with his neck and shoulders bathed in sweat. Dreams of his serpent-self — prowling — had returned with intensity, as soon as he'd left Hogwarts. He made kills, terrified people tried to escape, but he would never allow them to. Without conscience, Tom savaged his victims in a bloodlust. They could be anxiety dreams, but perhaps some were memories of his other self? He sat up and tried to swallow, but his throat was parched. Tom thought about fetching a cup of water from the washroom, but leaned over to check the time first. There was a scratching sound beneath his vest. With mounting dread he lifted it up, then everything stopped.

The scales had grown, so he switched on the overhead bulb. His left side, over the heart and stretching around the ribs, was a different colour. Bluish? Though difficult to tell in the faint light. _T_ _he Rabisu's influence?_ Tom's mind made excuses, but he already knew the truth. The price paid for the magic he'd used, was mentioned often, but the detail was never discussed.

The sensation from his scales had altered too. Before, the skin was alien and uncomfortable; now the opposite was true. The scales felt vital to Tom: a central component of his nervous system. He stroked the scales backwards and they were smooth as glass, but in the other direction: coarse and unyielding. The skin surrounding his scales felt numb now; not dead, but lacking its usual sensitivity. After the initial shock, he felt surprisingly comfortable with his appearance; much more than he ought to be. Tom thought about how he could modify the colour, to make the scales less obvious. Not: _what_ _can I do to get rid of them?_ The prospect of hunting along the river, also troubled him less than several minutes earlier. These middle-of-the-night conflicts, had become a regular feature over the last few weeks. The next day he would sometimes question whether the Tom Riddle he used to know, was still in charge.

Tom's wand was nearby, in his jacket pocket, so he reached for it and wrote with the tip.

 _TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE_

Then he gazed at the letters, spellbound. Tom recognised the name, but after elements of his past had come to light, was he really that person any more? Some muggle name, inherited from a man who cared nothing for his welfare. Was he a Gaunt? Yes, but much more than that too. The Heir to Slytherin? Any doubts he'd previously had, were just his muggle modesty at work.

Tom pulled some of the letters away.

I AM

The _True Lord Protector?_ It was a ridiculous name and besides, protection had never been his motive. He dragged more letters below without hesitating and allowed his mind to wander.

I AM LORD

Rearranging the remaining letters in a blazing circle, they rotated in front of his face. Like backpage workings for The Times crossword; the one Parnaby always failed to complete. With a deft flick, the remaining letters joined the text below.

 _I AM LORD VOLDEMORT_

A title befitting the Heir to Slytherin.

'Voldemort.' He tested the name and experienced a vision. Arms aloft, joined around his wand, showering green plasma like rain; behind him, a mighty army: loyal and vocal in their support. His heart pumping frozen blood, to soothe the raging fire inside. Before him with their dreams crushed, lay his scattered opposition: pleading in submissive voices for clemency. _Please noble lord, please let us live?_

Then Tom awoke.

Terrible nightmare, or a glimpse of the future? It was impossible to tell whether it was real and he'd fallen asleep, or if he'd never been awake.

Tom could not afford to let dark magic, ambition or the Rabisu corrupt him. _I am Tom Marvolo Riddle,_ whatever his history did, or did not claim. He had friends, a young girl who depended on him and above all: a future. None of which was worth surrendering, for the shallow allure of power.

He was better than that.


End file.
